THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


"Where  the  rolling  foothills  rise, 
Up  toward  mountains  higher; 
Where  at  eve  the  Coast  Range  lies 
In  the  sunset  fire." 


STANFORD  STORIES. 


Ctpjrifhtid  h  W.  1 

"The  Quad,  like  a  Mission  garden,  as  in  the  first  days 
of  the  great  Valley." 


STANFORD  STORIES 


TALES  OF  A 
YOUNG  UNIVERSITY 


CHARLES  K.  FIELD 

[CAROLUS  ACER] 
AND 

WILL  IRWIN 


ILLUSTRATED 


SAN  FRANCISCO 
A.  M.  ROBERTSON 

1913 


Copyright,  1900,  by 
DOUBLEDAY,  PAGE  &•  Co. 

Copyright,  19134  by 
A.  M.  ROBERTSON 


PS 


DEDICATION. 

"  To  the  newest  born  of  the  Sisters, 

At  the  end  of  the  race's  march, 
In  her  quaint  old  Spanish  garment, 

Pillar  and  tile  and  arch; 
Awaiting  the  age  that  hallows, 

Her  face  to  the  coming  morn — 
Whose  scholars  still  walk  in  her  cloisters, 

Whose  martyrs  are  yet  unborn." 


"  We  scatter  down  the  four  wide  ways, 

Clasp  hands  and  part,  but  keep 
The  power  of  the  golden  days 

To  lull  our  care  asleep, 
And  dream,  while  our  new  years  we  fill 

With  sweetness  from  those  four, 
That  we  are  known  and  loved  there  still, 

Though  we  come  back  no  more." 


rf 

'Vv-jL... 
LISRARf 


PREFATORY  NOTE  TO  THE  FIRST 
EDITION. 

THESE  are  stories  of  the  University  as  it  was  before  the 
era  of  new  buildings.  While  the  attempt  has  been  made 
to  create,  in  character,  incident  and  atmosphere,  a  picture 
of  Stanford  life,  the  stories,  as  stories,  are  fiction,  with  the 
exception  of  "Pocahontas,  Freshman,"  and  "Boggs' 
Election  Feed,"  which  were  suggested  by  local  occur 
rences,  and  "One  Commencement,"  which  is  mainly  fact. 
The  original  draft  of  "His  Uncle's  Will"  was  printed  in 
The  Sequoia  with  the  title  "The  Fate  of  Freshman  Hatch." 

It  may  be  necessary  to  add  that,  in  the  endeavor  to 
present  the  actual  life  of  the  University,  it  has  seemed 
quite  inadvisable  to  edit  the  conversation  of  the  characters 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  English  purist.  Since,  however, 
those  readers  who  boggle  over  slang  could  hardly  be  much 
interested  in  the  Undergraduate,  it  is  sufficient  merely  to 
call  attention  to  the  point. 


FOREWORD  TO  THE  SECOND 
EDITION. 

THESE  tales  of  a  young  university  were  told  when  the 
University  was  some  fifteen  years  younger.  Yet,  in  those 
years,  the  stories  have  not  lost  their  fidelity  to  life  at 
Stanford,  however  much  persons  and  buildings  and  the 
style  in  football  may  have  changed.  Stanford  Stories  are 
still  what  their  authors  hoped  to  make  them — a  picture 
of  Stanford  life  in  character,  incident  and  atmosphere.  In 
the  belief  that  this  book  should  remain  no  longer  out  of 
print,  a  new  edition,  including  two  stories  by  Field  and 
Irwin  not  in  the  first  edition,  is  published  for  the  sake 
of  Stanford  people,  of  today  and  tomorrow  as  well  as 
yesterday. 

THE  ENGLISH  CLUB 

Stanford  University 

October,  1913 


CONTENTS. 

PAGE 

A  MIDWINTER  MADNESS   ------  3 

POCAHONTAS,   FRESHMAN          ------  29 

His  UNCLE'S  WILL -  55 

THE  INITIATION  OF  DROMIO        -      -      -      -      -  77 

THE  SUBSTITUTED  FULLBACK   -       -      -      -  91 

Two  PIONEERS  AND  AN  AUDIENCE     -      -      -      -  119 

FOR  THE  SAKE  OF  ARGUMENT  -----  135 

AN  ALUMNI  DINNER      -------  171 

BOGGS'  ELECTION  FEED     ------  185 

IN  THE  DARK  DAYS 207 

CROSSROADS 223 

A  SONG-CYCLE  AND  A  PUNCTURE        -      ...  249 

BANNISTER'S  "Scoop"       ------  265 

A  WOODSIDE  IDYL 289 

ONE  COMMENCEMENT  -------  303 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

THE  QUAD,  LIKE  A  MISSION  GARDEN,  AS  IN  THE  FIRST 
DAYS  OF  THE  GREAT  VALLEY  ....  Frontispiece 

PAST  THE  LONELY  REDWOOD  TREE  TO  THE  UNIVERSITY 
Facing  Page  30 

THAT  AFTERNOON  THE  GROUNDS  WERE  BANKED  WITH 
GREAT  FLOWER-BEDS  OF  PEOPLE  .  .  Facing  Page  112 

THEY  DROVE  AWAY  TOWARD  THE  LA  HONDA 
REDWOODS Facing  Page  148 

ON  FRIDAY  NIGHT,  SHADOWY  FIGURES  CAME  AND 
PASSED  DOWN  THE  FAIRY-LAND  VISTAS  OF  THE 
QUADRANGLE Facing  Page  234 

THE  SPREAD  or  SANDSTONE  BUILDINGS  ACROSS  THE 
GREEN  CAMPUS Facing  Page  270 


A 
MIDWINTER  MADNESS. 


STANFORD   STORIES. 


A  Midwinter  Madness. 

Genius  has  been  defined  as  a   capacity  for  taking  pains. 

When  a  college  man's  good  fairy  makes  her 
first  call  at  his  cradle,  she  may  bestow  upon 
him  the  football  instinct,  with  muscles  to 
match;  no  fairy  could  do  more.  But  if  she 
bumps  up  against  Heredity,  and  is  powerless 
to  give  him  the  supreme  gift,  she  may  com 
pensate  for  it  in  a  degree  by  leaving  the  kind 
of  larynx  and  tympanum  used  in  the  Glee 
Club.  Failing  this,  she  may  render  next  best 
service  by  throwing  a  mandolin  in  his  way  and 
bewitching  his  parents  into  paying  for  lessons. 
Some  twenty  years  later,  behind  the  enchanted 
scenes  of  a  specially  hired  theater,  or  on  the 
polished  floor  of  society's  inner  temple,  he 
may  think  of  the  fairy  kindly. 

Doubtless,  all  theatrical  life  means  drudg 
ery,  but  the  Christmas  tour  of  the  Glee  and 
Mandolin  clubs  is  drudgery  amidst  bowers  of 
roses.  The  hard-working  professional  would 
call  it  play;  yet,  even  in  this  gilded  stage-life, 


4  Stanford  Stories. 

there  is  the  common  affliction  of  being  forced 
to  appear  at  every  concert,  and  in  places  you 
don't  care  about — unless,  of  course,  you  hap 
pen  to  be  seriously  ill. 

The  Clubs  had  just  done  an  abbreviated 
stunt  for  the  Los  Angeles  High  School  the 
afternoon  before  Christmas.  The  occasion 
was  a  big  ad.,  but  they  ripped  matters  through 
in  a  hurry,  because  the  social  event  of  the  trip 
came  that  afternoon — Lillian  Arnold's  recep< 
tion  at  her  home  on  Figuerroa  Street. 

At  Hacienda  Arnold  there  is  running  water 
along  the  garden  copings,  and  the  grounds 
are  large.  It  was  bud-time,  and  the  heavy 
fragrance  of  the  orange  blossoms  mingled 
with  the  bitter-almond  smell  of  oleanders. 
Miss  Arnold  served  her  refreshments  on  the 
lawn,  and  the  girls  looked  peachy  in  plume- 
laden  hats  and  filmy  organdies.  The  day 
was  rather  warm  for  December.  To  this 
out-door  reception  came  the  prettiest  girl  in 
Los  Angeles,  Dolores  Payson;  her  full  name, 
she  confided  to  Cecil  Van  Dyke  that  evening 
with  a  slight  but  captivating  roll  of  her  Anda- 
lusian  eyes  and  r's,  was  Dolores  Ynez  Teresa 
Payson.  Van  Dyke  was  the  only  man  on  the 
trip  who  had  thought  to  bring  his  summer 
togs,  and  he  looked  very  swell.  Van  played 
first  mandolin  and  was  notoriously  suscepti 
ble.  It  is  down  in  the  Club  annals  that  she 
caught  his  game  at  first  sight. 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  5 

Had  she  been  given  to  genealogical  investi 
gation,  the  name  Van  Dyke  might  have  re 
called  to  this  descendant  of  many  hidalgos 
that  foggy  battle-field  in  the  Netherlands  on 
which  her  ancestor  and  his  took  pot-shots  at 
each  other  with  the  primitive  cross-bow. 
Motley  records  that  on  that  day  far-gone  Hol 
land  laid  low  the  Spaniard.  The  present  his 
torian  is  forced  to  chronicle  the  final  triumph 
of  Spain.  The  only  bow  used  in  this  last 
encounter  was  in  the  hands  of  a  mythological 
person  whose  existence  is  doubted  only  by 
scoffers. 

They  tried  a  dance  or  two  in  the  crowded 
rooms,  they  strolled  out  into  the  gardens, 
they  ate  ices  under  the  roses  in  a  secluded 
arbor.  The  place,  the  time,  the  air  bad  their 
influence  on  Van  Dyke.  He  was  from  Mon 
tana,  where  the  magnolias  do  not  shed  their 
waxen  petals  at  Christmas,  and  the  gold-of- 
Ophir  roses  sternly  refuse  to  leaf  until  the 
Fourth  of  July. 

Perhaps  he  might  have  withstood  all  the 
seductive  charms  of  the  hour  if  he  had  not  es 
corted  Dolores  home  and  essayed  to  bid  her 
good-bye.  There  was  a  great  clump  of  fla 
ming  poinsettia  at  the  Payson  gate.  Dolores 
was  dark,  with  a  rich  southern  complexion; 
her  dress  was  white.  So  she  stood  against 
the  poinsettia.  That  is  why  there  is  more  to 
this  story. 


6  Stanford  Stories. 

Van  Dyke  meditated  as  he  went  into  town. 
She  was  the  finest  girl  he  had  ever  met.  It 
was  a  hard  graft,  this  playing  one  day  in  a 
live  town  where  one  could  meet  charming 
people,  and  being  forced  to  take  the  train 
next  morning  for  some  uninteresting  country 
place  where  they  would  have  to  lounge 
around  a  cheap  hotel  until  concert  time. 
Why  couldn't  the  manager  get  up  a  schedule 
that  would  give  them  a  day  or  so  longer  in  a 
place  like  Los  Angeles?  This  making  a  col 
lege  trip  with  the  sole  idea  of  money-getting 
was  degrading.  He,  for  one,  was  willing 
enough  to  pay  his  share  of  the  extra  expense. 

On  his  way  he  stopped  at  a  florist's.  It  was 
a  habit  he  had  acquired  under  similar  circum 
stances.  He  was  puzzled  to  know  just  what 
to  send  in  a  land  where  the  highways  and 
hedges  run  riot  with  flowers,  but  he  finally 
selected  some  wonderful  orchids  of  delicate 
lavender  and  mauve.  Purposely,  he  put  no 
card  with  them,  feeling  that  she  would  guess 
the  sender. 

He  got  into  his  dress  clothes  in  rather  an 
ungracious  humor.  Pomona  was  the  next 
place,  a  fruit  town  further  south.  Oh,  it  was 
too  bad!  Well,  at  least  he  would  see  her 
again  at  the  concert  that  night.  He  was 
grateful  for  this  much.  Her  seat  was  on  an 
aisle,  she  told  him;  he  would  be  able  to  speak 
to  her  during  the  intermission;  more  than 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  7 

this,  she  had  said,  in  her  best  convent  man 
ner,  that  he  might  ride  home  with  her  papa 
and  mamma  afterwards. 

Still,  this  was  an  unsatisfactory  way  of  car 
rying  on  an  affair  of  the  sort,  especially  when 
it  was  the  first  really  serious  one  he  had  ever 
had.  Clean  out  of  Van's  mind  had  faded  the 
memory  of  a  Montana  cow-girl,  a  San  Fran 
cisco  actress,  a  senior  in  the  Lambda  Mu 

sorority,  a but  space  forbids.  He  mussed 

three  ties.  Freshmen  are  petulant  things. 

Perkins,  who  led  the  Mandolin  Club,  joshed 
him  at  dinner. 

"What's  the  matter,  my  boy;  didn't  you 
have  a  good  time  this  afternoon?" 

"Of  course  he  didn't,"  answered  a  guitar 
man.  "You  must  have  noticed  his  bored  ex 
pression  all  through;  that  is,  when  you  saw 
him  at  all." 

"That  was  merely  the  blase  look  that  comes 
with  four  months  at  the  Youngest  and  Best," 
said  "Cap."  Smith.  "The  Freshman  was 
happy  on  his  little  inside  because  he  was  so 
well  got  up.  He  really  looked  the  part;  now 
he's  in  ordinary  clothes,  like  a  common  stroll 
ing  player,  and  he  feels  cross." 

"No,"  growled  Van  Dyke,  "I've  caught 
cold  or  something." 

"Oh,"  said  Phillips,  the  Glee  Club  leader. 
He  took  up  his  table  fork  and  bit  the  end; 
holding  it  to  his  ear  he  gave  the  table  a 


Stanford  Stories. 

starting  chord,  and  they  hummed  "Ma  Onliest 
One,"  while  Van  grew  red,  and  the  rest  of  the 
dining-room  stopped  to  listen. 

Dolores  Payson  sat  in  an  orchestra  seat 
and  smiled  up  at  the  immaculate  Mr.  Van 
Dyke,  above  the  only  bunch  of  orchids  in  the 
theatre.  He  came  to  chat  with  her  during  the 
interval  between  "La  Czarina"  and 
"Schneider's  Band."  She  was  doubly  guarded 
by  her  father  on  one  side  and  her  mother  on 
the  other.  It  was  a  way  they  had.  She  in 
troduced  him  demurely  with  an  adorable  little 
wave  of  her  black  fan.  He  wondered  if, 
should  he  quit  college  right  away,  he  could 
get  a  job  which  would  enable  him  to  support 
a  wife.  He  looked  at  the  placid,  olive-skinned 
mother,  not  yet  old  enough  to  be  very  fat, 
and  decided  that  he  could;  his  glance 
wandered  to  the  angular,  sharp-featured 
American  father,  and  he  was  sure  he  couldn't. 

Van  could  not  remember  ever  having  seen 
such  great,  dark  liquid  eyes  as  now  melted 
into  his.  It  seemed  hard  not  to  behold  them 
again  for  a  whole  week.  Hard?  It  was  im 
possible.  It  was  dreadful  to  leave  her  for  the 
little  time  while  the  mandolin  club  was  on  the 
stage.  On  his  way  up  the  aisle  his  freshman 
brain  was  seized  and  overmastered  by  a  bril 
liant  idea;  he  almost  stopped  to  pat  himself 
on  the  shoulder. 

Going  into  one  of  the  dressing  rooms,  he 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  9 

sank  dejectedly  on  a  chair  and  pressed  his 
hand  to  his  forehead.  Perkins,  gathering  in 
his  musicians  for  the  next  piece,  found  him 
there. 

"Come  along,  Freshie." 

The  first  mandolin  rose  slowly. 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  the  leader. 

"Oh,  nothing,"  said  the  other,  "I'll  be  all 
right." 

After  the  piece  he  went  back  to  the  dress 
ing-room. 

"Encore!"  cried  Perkins,  rushing  in. 

"I  can't  help  it,"  said  Van,  in  a  contracted 
tone,  "I  can't  go  on." 

"Why  not?"  demanded  Perkins. 

"I'm  in  awful  pain,  Ted,"  pleaded  Van. 
"Something  I've  eaten,  I  guess.  I  can  hardly 
stand  up  straight." 

"Oh,  rats!"  answered  Perkins  sympatheti 
cally,  and  tore  out  again. 

Van  took  his  coat  and  mandolin  and  dis 
appeared.  Between  numbers  he  came  in  and 
slipped  down  the  aisle  to  the  Paysons'  seats. 

"Will  you  excuse  me,  Miss  Payson?  I 
can't  go  home  with  you  after  the  concert. 
I'm  awfully  sorry,  but  I  feel  pretty  sick  and 
I'm  going  back  to  the  hotel  now." 

"Oh,  what  is  it?"  Dolores  asked,  and  her 
mother  leaned  forward  with  polite  interest. 

Van  smiled  weakly. 

"Nothing     serious,     probably,"     he     said. 


10  Stanford  Stories. 

"Don't  worry,  please.  I  won't  say  good-bye," 
he  added,  taking  Dolores'  hand,  "because  if 
I  have  to  stay  over  to-morrow  I  shall  try  to 
see  you  in  the  morning." 

"Oh,  I  hope  you'll  be  better,  and  I  shall 
look  for  you." 

Then  Mason  came  out  to  sing,  and  Van  left 
with  a  hurried  good-night.  The  streets  were 
full  of  Christmas  shoppers.  At  the  first  drug 
store  he  bought  some  Jamaica  ginger;  then 
he  went  to  the  hotel  and  slid  into  bed,  leaving 
the  lights  on. 

After  the  concert  Perkins  did  not  go  to  the 
cafe  with  the  rest;  he,  too,  hastened  back  to 
the  hotel. 

"I'll  bet  he's  at  the  Payson  ranch  this 
minute,"  he  thought,  as  he  made  for  Van's 
room,  but  the  sick  musician  was  lying  on  his 
face,  breathing  heavily. 

"Well,  what's  the  matter,  anyway?"  said 
Perkins,  his  suspicions  fading. 

"I  don't  know,"  groaned  Van.  "It  came 
on  all  of  a  sudden  at  the  theatre.  The  pain 
is  here  on  my  right  side.  Gee  whiz,  it  knocks 
me  out!" 

"Shan't  I  get  a  doctor?"  asked  the  leader. 
"What  do  you  think  it  is?" 

"Of  course,"  moaned  the  sufferer,  "it  may 
be  appendicitis, — I  don't  think  that  could 
hurt  more, — but  it  can  hardly  be  anything  like 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  " 

that.  I've  taken  the  ginger,  and  it  will  set 
me  up,  probably." 

''You  ought  to  have  a  doctor  look  at  you, 
though.  It's  dangerous  to  put  it  off,"  urgfed 
Perkins. 

"No,"  said  Van.  "I'll  stick  it  out  to-night, 
and  if  I'm  not  better  to-morrow,  why,  you 
may  get  one.  Never  mind  me,  Ted.  Where 
is  the  gang?" 

"They're  all  down  in  the  Grotto." 

"Go  on  and  join  them;  don't  stay  here,  it 
isn't  necessary.  I'll  be  all  right,  I  say,  and  I 
can  ring  if  I'm  not.  Come  in  in  the  morning, 
won't  you?" 

"Sure.  The  train  goes  at  ten-fifteen,  you 
know.  We  can't  get  along  without  you  very 
well." 

"Oh,  I'll  be  fit  in  the  morning.  So  long, 
old  man." 

"Good-night,"  and  Perkins  shut  the  door. 

The  Freshman  lay  still  awhile,  then  got  up 
and,  smiling  broadly,  turned  out  the  lights  and 
tumbled  back  to  sleep. 

Meanwhile  Perkins  joined  the  men  at  the 
restaurant. 

"Van  Dyke  is  sick,"  he  said.  "I've  just 
been  up  in  his  room." 

"What's  the  matter?" 

"We  don't  know.  He's  afraid  it's  appendi 
citis." 

"I'll  tell  you  what  it  is,"  said  Mason,  the 


12  Stanford  Stories. 

baritone;  "it's  heart  trouble.  I  wouldn't  be 
lieve  that  man  Van  under  a  triple  oath,  if 
there  were  a  skirt  in  the  case." 

"You  won't  have  to  search  far  in  this  case," 
laughed  a  deep  bass  voice  behind  a  cool  stein. 

"Oh,  I  don't  think  so,"  protested  Perkins; 
"he  looked  bad,  bad.  I  think  it's  square 
enough." 

"Don't  you  believe  him  a  minute.  I'll  bet 
it's  a  fake,  pure  and  simple." 

"He  couldn't  expect  to  work  one  on  us." 

"Why  not?  The  time  the  Mandolin  Club 
went  North  with  the  Berkeley  Glee  somebody 
played  the  same  blooming  game.  It  worked 
all  right  then  and  they  joshed  the  life  out  of 
the  leader,  too.  I  heard  Shirlock  tell  about 
it." 

The  Freshman  should  never  have  allowed 
himself  to  go  to  sleep  so  easily.  By  the  time 
Perkins  and  Mason  tiptoed  up  to  his  room,  he 
was  sprawled  out  on  his  back,  snoring  with  a 
healthfulness  that  was  positively  vulgar. 
Mason  gave  the  leader  a  significant  punch 
and  drew  him  down  the  hall  to  his  room. 

"See  here,  Perk,"  he  said,  "if  he  keeps  up 
that  gag  to-morrow  I  have  a  scheme  that  is  a 
pipe." 

The  invalid  wore  a  woe-begone  expression 
when  the  two  fellows  went  in  before  break 
fast. 

"Are  you  any  better?"  asked  Perkins. 


A   Midwinter  Madness.  *3 

"No,"  said  Van,  miserably.  "The  pain  is 
just  as  bad.  I  guess  I'll  have  to  see  a  doctor 
after  all." 

"How  did  you  sleep?"  inquired  Perkins. 

"Bum.  My  fever  was  high  all  night," 
moaned  the  sufferer.  "I  heard  you  fellows 
come  up,  and  I  hoped  someone  might  drop 
in.  I  suppose  you  were  all  too  sleepy." 

"Yes,"  said  Mason,  with  a  side  look  at 
Perkins,  "everybody  went  right  to  sleep." 

"Well,"  said  the  leader,  "we'll  go  down  to 
breakfast  now,  and  then  we  will  get  a  doctor 
to  see  you  before  we  have  to  go." 

Neither  of  them  stopped  to  eat.  They  hur 
ried  first  to  the  Polyclinic.  There  Perkins 
asked  for  the  name  of  one  or  two  physicians 
who  were  known  to  have  little  practice,  and 
who  could  afford  to  take  charge  of  a  man  who 
would  require  constant  attention  for  a  week, 
a  middle-aged  person  preferred. 

The  man  in  charge  gave  them  three  names 
and  addresses.  They  went  first  to  a  Doctor 
Mead,  who  displayed  his  shingle  in  a  quiet 
street.  He  was  a  big,  slow-spoken  man, 
somewhat  shabbily  dressed. 

Jimmy  Mason  approached  him  with  such 
hesitation  Ln  his  voice  as  befitted  the  part  he 
was  playing.  They  wanted  the  doctor  on  a 
delicate  matter,  he  explained;  it  was  a  private 
affair  which  lay  very  near  to  them,  Perkins 
added. 


H  Stanford  Stories. 

"You  see,"  said  Jimmy,  "we're  all  cut  up. 

Poor  little  devil "  and  his  voice  broke 

artistically,  while  Perkins  forebore  to  grin. 

"Perhaps  the  case  is  not  so  grave  as  it 
seems,"  said  the  doctor,  with  professional 
calm. 

"I  don't  see  how  it  could  be  any  worse." 
Jimmy  controlled  his  emotion  with  an  effort. 
"If  it  were  just  common  sickness,  but — 
but  he's  lost  some  of  his  buttons — bughouse, 
crazy  you  know, — "  his  giggle  turned  into  a 
sob  again,  and  Perkins,  bearing  up  under  his 
trouble,  took  the  thread  of  the  story. 

"You  see,  Doctor,  we  are  musicians  from 
Stanford,  travelling  through  here;  something 
has  happened  to  one  of  our  party;  I  don't 
know  what's  the  matter:  some  hallucination." 

"It  struck  him  first  at  Santa  Barbara,"  said 
Mason.  "He  thought  that  he  was  very  ill 
one  evening  when  he  was  tired;  said  he  was 
sure  he  was  coming  down  with  appendicitis. 
We  sent  for  Doctor " 

"Brown,"  filled  in  Perkins  with  presence  of 
mind. 

"A  very  able  man;  he  stands  high  in  the 
profession,"  said  the  doctor  gravely. 

All  three  being  thus  established  on  a  com 
mon  basis  of  mendacity,  the  head  liar  pro 
ceeded: 

"The  doctor  couldn't  find  anything  the  mat 
ter,  but  the  boy — he's  only  a  Freshman,  you 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  '5 

see, — he  raised  Cain  that  night;  next  day  he 
said  he  was  as  well  as  ever.  It's  been  like 
that  ever  since,  Doctor.  One  hour  he's  him 
self  and  then  he  goes  to  bed  and  swears  he's 
sick  and  wants  medicines.  We  didn't  get 
onto  him  until  last  night,  when  the  poor  kid 
got  to  acting  loco  at  the  concert." 

Perkins  played  chorus  at  discreet  intervals. 

"I  haven't  telegraphed  to  his  people  be 
cause  I  wouldn't  distress  them  till  we  knew. 
We  must  go  on  with  the  trip  now,  and  we 
can't  spare  any  of  our  men  because  we  took 
no  substitutes;  we  strike  this  place  again  in  a 
week.  You  will  be  paid  well  for  any  services, 
and  furnished  a  room  at  the  hotel.  Now, 
Doctor,  can  you  arrange  with  your  patients 
so  that  he  will  have  your  undivided  time?" 

("Bet  you  haven't  any  to  arrange  with,"  was 
the  unspoken  thought  of  both  men.) 

Dr.  Mead  pondered. 

"We  come  to  you,"  Jimmy  put  in,  "because 
we  need  someone  on  whom  we  can  rely,  a 
man  of  skill  and  tact." 

"It  happens,"  said  the  doctor  after  minutes 
of  profound  deliberation,  "that  I  have  no 
necessary  calls  to  make  until  Saturday  this 
week.  What  I  have  to  do  can  be  managed 
over  the  telephone,  and  I  presume  patients 
can  call  upon  me  at  the  hotel  as  well  as  here. 
Now,  what  are  the  exact  particulars  of  your 
friend's  aberration?" 


16  Stanford  Stories. 

"Can  you  walk  up  to  the  hotel  with  us, 
Doctor?"  asked  Mason,  looking  at  his  watch. 
"Our  train  leaves  at  ten-fifteen;  we  have  very 
little  time  left." 

On  the  way  the  two  gave  to  the  unfortunate 
Freshman  such  peculiarities,  idiosyncrasies 
and  hallucinations  as  seemed  good;  they 
warned  the  physician  that  he  must  never  be 
left  alone,  and  that  he  ought  to  be  humored 
to  the  top  of  his  bent  in  regard  to  his  fancied 
attack  of  appendicitis. 

"Then  it's  understood?"  said  Mason,  as 
they  came  down  the  hall  toward  Van  Dyke's 
room.  "Of  course  we  can't  speak  of  the  mat 
ter  before  him." 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  "I  think  I  can 
manage  everything.  You  will  explain  to  the 
clerk  in  the  office  the  peculiar  character  of 
your  friend's  illness,  and  I  shall  have  no 
trouble,  I  am  sure." 

"All  right,"  said  Perkins,  and  they  entered. 
There  were  several  of  the  club  in  the  room 
saying  good-bye.  At  the  entrance  of  the 
physician  they  filed  out. 

"Where  have  you  the  most  pain,  Mr.  Van 
Dyke?"  began  Dr.  Mead. 

"Here,"  said  Van,  without  a  blush. 

The  physician  pressed  his  fingers  upon  the 
afflicted  region,  felt  Van's  pulse  and  forehead 
and  gravely  examined  his  tongue;  then  he 
turned  to  the  two  men  and  said: 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  *7 

"It  is  probably  appendicitis.  The  boy  must 
stay  in  bed  for  the  present." 

''Hate  to  leave  you,  Van,"  Mason  said, 
taking  the  sick  man's  hand  gently;  "but  it's 
almost  train  time.  Take  care  of  yourself  and 
do  as  the  doctor  says,  and  you'll  be  O.  K." 

"Good-bye,  old  man,"  said  Perkins.  "Have 
'em  telegraph  right  along;  we  shall  want  to 
know  just  how  you  are.  We  shall  have  to 
cut  the  string  quartet,  and  that's  pretty  hard 
with  Pellams  out  of  the  trip,  but  don't  feel 
bad  about  that.  You'll  be  nifty  by  the  time 
we  are  on  for  the  return  concert." 

"Good-bye,"  said  the  man  with  appendicitis, 
assuming  the  look  of  one  who  may  be  taking 
his  last  farewell  of  earthly  things.  "I  shall 
come  out  all  right,  I'm  sure  I  shall." 

"Course.  Good-bye.  Doctor,  look  out  for 
him." 

"Send  up  some  paper  from  the  office,  will 
you?"  murmured  the  Freshman  wearily.  "I — 
I  think  I  want  to  write  to  my  mother." 

Ten  minutes  later  the  bell-boy  brought  the 
paper  and  a  Bible. 

Dr.  Mead  arranged  the  bedclothes  with  a 
practised  hand,  then  he  sent  out  for  medicine 
and  chatted  affably  until  the  stuff  arrived. 
Van  submitted  to  a  plaster  on  his  abdomen 
and  alternated  messes  for  half-hour  intervals. 
He  was  contented  enough.  Early  afternoon 
would  be  a  good  time  to  find  Dolores. 


18  Stanford  Stories. 

The  doctor  settled  himself  by  the  window 
and  talked  about  the  University  and  politics 
and  climatic  conditions  in  Montana  and  Cali 
fornia;  the  musician  joined  in  the  conversa 
tion  politely  but  without  great  enthusiasm, 
wondering  when  the  man  was  going;  there 
was  not  any  too  much  time  now  for  breakfast 
and  a  careful  toilet.  He  ventured  to  speak. 

"If  you  have  other  patients  that  call  you, 
Doctor,  you  mustn't  stay  with  me.  I  can  get 
along,  even  if  it  is  lonely  in  a  hotel,  and  you'll 
be  in  again  to-day,  won't  you?" 

"Appendicitis,"  said  the  doctor,  with  his 
heaviest  air,  "is  not  a  thing  to  be  treated 
lightly.  Just  now  you  are  in  a  critical  con 
dition  inasmuch  as  we  are  not  sure  what  turn 
your  trouble  may  take.  You  are  likely  to  be 
seized  suddenly  with  the  usual  symptoms: 
then  an  operation  will  be  an  immediate  neces 
sity.  I  have  the  needed  instruments  right 
here  in  my  valise,  and  I  can  give  you  relief  at 
once.  If,  however,  I  should  leave  you,  I 
might  not  be  within  reach  until  serious  com 
plications  had  time  to  arise;  for  that  reason 
I  shall  be  obliged  to  watch  you  through 
to-day.  Afterwards  it  may  not  be  necessary." 

This  speech  fairly  paralyzed  the  man  in  bed. 
Had  he  done  this  artistic  bit  of  acting  for  the 
purpose  of  spending  his  Christmas  on  the  flat 
of  his  back  talking  to  a  prosy  old  doctor? 
He  lay  still,  trying  to  think  what  answer  could 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  19 

be  made  to  this  physician  who  told  him  ser 
iously  that  he  had  appendicitis.  He  put  out 
a  feeler. 

"That  medicine  of  yours  is  the  real  thing. 
The  pain  is  very  much  less  now." 

Dr.  Mead  looked  at  him  over  his  glasses. 

"Is  it  entirely  gone?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Van,  cheerily,  "it  certainly 
is." 

"That  is  a  dangerous  symptom.  The 
plaster  should  have  drawn  the  pain  to  the 
surface,  but  not  stopped  it.  That  numbness 
is  exactly  what  I  wished  to  avoid." 

He  rose  and  poured  out  medicine  from 
another  bottle.  Van  nearly  choked  in  swal 
lowing  this.  It  was  eleven  o'clock.  Sounds 
of  Christmas  revelry  floated  even  into  his 
secluded  upper  room.  The  bells  were  telling 
to  the  people  of  the  City  of  the  Angels  their 
message  of  peace  on  earth,  good  will  toward 
men;  they  were  dinning  into  the  ears  of  the 
victim  of  a  modern  disease  the  fact  that  he 
ought  at  that  moment  to  be  waiting  for  Do 
lores  on  her  pious  way  to  Mission  Los  An 
geles.  He  pictured  her  with  some  ancient 
missal  in  her  slender  hands,  and  flanked  on 
one  side  by  her  sympathetic  duenna  of  a 
mother.  The  certainty  that  her  American 
father  would  be  safe  at  home  did  not  detract 
from  the  charm  of  the  situation. 

"The  drinks  seem  to  be  on  me!"  thought 


20  Stanford  Stories. 

he  after  his  next  dose.  The  sun  of  southern 
California  was  shining  brightly  out  of  doors; 
it  must  be  a  glorious  day  at  Westlake  Park. 
The  bedclothes  were  warm  and  irksome,  and 
that  confounded  plaster  had  begun  to  itch. 
If  he  was  ever  to  see  Dolores  again  he  should 
have  to  make  a  clean  breast  of  the  whole 
thing. 

He  sat  up. 

"Say,  Doctor,  I  haven't  appendicitis  at  all; 
I  am  as  well  as  I  ever  was.  I  just  put  this 
up  as  a  joke  on  the  fellows  because  I  wanted 
to  stay  in  town  instead  of  going  farther  south. 
I've  imposed  on  you,  I'm  sorry  to  say.  I 
haven't  any  pain  whatever.  I  was  faking." 

"Yes,"  said  the  doctor,  soothingly,  "I  knew 
you  were,  but  you  are  not  well  at  all,  my  boy, 
and  my  advice  to  you  is  to  stay  right  there  in 
bed.  You  have  appendicitis  symptoms  in 
spite  of  there  being  no  pain,  and  you  might 
do  yourself  no  end  of  harm  by  getting  up 
now.  I  wouldn't  let  any  man  go  out  of  doors 
after  taking  that  belladonna  for  the  world.  It 
would  be  suicidal." 

"But,  Doctor,  I'm  not  sick,  I  tell  you;  I 
feel  out  of  sight,"  and  Van  threw  off  the 
clothes  and  was  about  to  spring  out,  plaster 
and  all. 

Dr.  Mead  thought  it  time  to  act. 

"Get  back  in  there,"  he  said,  quietly  but 
firmly.  He  was  a  man  of  powerful  physique 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  21 

and  Van  thought  it  best  to  obey  until  he  could 
reason  with  him. 

"I  know  what  I  am  talking  about,  young 
man,"  he  went  on,  "and  you  must  listen  to  me. 
I  want  you  to  stay  in  bed." 

This  was  too  much. 

"Ill  be  hanged  if  I  will!"  shouted  the  pa 
tient,  preparing  to  rise. 

"Keep  covered  up!"  ordered  the  doctor. 
He  had  a  big,  deep  voice.  He  stood  a  little 
way  off,  with  his  forefinger  pointed  at  the 
student,  sighting  over  it  with  a  cold,  gray 
eye.  Something  in  his  manner  began  to 
frighten  Van.  He  shivered  under  the  bed 
clothes.  A  hideous  story  which  he  had  read 
about  a  maniac  barber  came  into  his  mind 
with  sickening  effect.  The  man's  whole  ap 
pearance,  all  his  actions,  his  eager  grasping  of 
the  appendicitis  theory,  proclaimed  insanity. 
He  meant  to  operate  on  him,  whether  or  no! 
There  were  the  surgical  instruments  in  that 
black  bag  on  the  bureau,  and  he  was  shut  up 
in  the  room  with  the  whole  crazy  outfit!  He 
would  have  given  his  soul  to  be  in  Pomona 
with  the  club. 

"All  right,  Doctor,"  he  said  weakly,  sliding 
a  little  farther  down  into  the  bed,  "I'll  do  just 
as  you  say.  Only  I  wish  you'd  ring  and  see 
if  any  mail  has  come  for  me." 

The  boy  who  answered  the  doctor's  call 
was  an  athletic  young  fellow.  Van  thought 


22  Stanford  Stories. 

that  between  them  they  could  manage  the 
maniac;  so  he  sprang  out  crying,  "Quick! 
This  man  is  crazy.  Help  me  get  him  down!" 

To  his  surprise  the  boy  seized  him  and  de 
posited  him  back  in  bed. 

"What  in  thunder  is  the  matter  with  you 
people?"  shouted  Van.  "I'm  not  going  to 
stay  here  with  that  man  when  there's  nothing 
the  matter  with  me!" 

"There,  there,"  coaxed  the  boy,  "you're  all 
right,  sir;  try  to  go  to  sleep,  can't  you?" 

Then  Van  turned  over  to  the  wall  and  wept 
salt  Freshman  tears,  and  the  awe-struck  boy 
gently  closed  the  door.  And  Cupid,  with  his 
wings  folded  over  his  little  arms,  sat  upon  the 
bureau  and  laughed  long  and  cynically. 

It  was  now  past  twelve  o'clock.  Church 
was  over,  and  Dolores  was  returning.  Home 
ward  gently  she  rode  with  surging  thoughts 
in  her  bosom,  and  an  expression  of  sweet, 
religious  calm  hovering  over  her  straight 
black  brows.  That  was  the  Spanish  of  her. 
The  moment  the  front  door  closed  behind  her 
she  sprinted  for  the  telephone.  That  was  the 
American  of  her. 

Had  Papa  Payson  not  been  absorbed  in  the 
forty-eight-page  Christmas  edition  of  the  Los 
Angeles  Herald,  he  might  have  overheard  the 
following  semi-conversation: 


"Main  eight-double-eight." 


A  Midwinter  Madness 


'Yes." 


"Is  this  the  Westminster?" 


"Will  you — er — that  is — did    the    Stanford 
Glee  Club  leave  this  morning?" 


"Oh!     Will  you  tell  me,  please,  whether 
Mr.  Cecil  Van  Dyke  left  with  them?" 


"Oh,  I'm  so  sorry!     What's  the  matter?" 


"Appendicitis!"  The  receiver  dropped  and 
swung  against  the  wall.  Dolores  had  fled  to 
mamma. 

Perkins  and  Mason,  treating  each  other 
at  every  station  short  of  the  prohibition  town 
of  Pomona,  would  have  felt  less  complacent 
over  their  little  joke  had  they  seen  the  pro 
cession  that  left  the  Hotel  Westminster  at 
one-thirty  P.  M.  on  that  balmy  Christmas 
day.  The  order  of  march,  as  instituted  by 
the  American  Dolores,  was  as  follows: 

1.  The   Payson   carriage,   with   Mrs.   and 
Miss  Payson  on  the  forward  seat  and  a  ten 
derly  wrapped  Freshman  on  the  other,  and  the 
coachman  instructed  to  drive  gently. 

2.  Dr.  Mead  and  the  devoted  bell-boy  in 
a  phaeton. 

3.  Small  citizens  on  foot. 


24  Stanford  Stories. 

The  doctor,  obeying  to  the  letter  the  orders 
of  Perkins,  who  had  commanded  him  not  to 
leave  his  patient  for  one  moment,  smiled 
broadly  as  he  gathered  the  lunatic  into  his 
arms  and  bore  him  past  the  fatal  poinsettia 
bushes  and  up  the  broad  steps  where  the 
grave  major-domo  was  waiting  to  receive 
them.  The  scale  upon  which  the  Payson 
household  was  conducted  just  suited  the  ideas 
of  that  worthy  practitioner. 

***** 

On  Saturday,  Perkins  and  Mason  asked  at 
the  hotel  for  Van  Dyke  and  the  doctor. 

"They  gave  up  their  rooms  last  Monday, 
not  very  long  after  you  left,"  said  the  clerk. 
"A  lady  took  your  friend  to  her  house." 

"Who  was  she?"  asked  Jimmy,  with  dark 
foreboding. 

"A  Mrs.  Payson." 

Perkins  collapsed  on  his  suit-case.  Jimmy 
made  for  the  desk  and  began  to  scan  the 
directory. 

"What  are  you  looking  for?" 

"The  P's.  I'm  going  to  haze  that  rattle- 
weeded  Freshman  and  slay  the  doctor." 

When  the  two  defeated  joshers  paused  in 
side  the  Payson  gate,  a  scene  of  touching 
domesticity  met  their  gaze.  Under  a  jasmine- 
covered  corner  of  the  piazza,  nestling  in  the 
depths  of  a  great  easy  chair,  lay  Freshman 
Van  Dyke.  Sefiorita  Dolores,  in  the  role  of 


A  Midwinter  Madness.  25 

ministering  angel,  was  bending  unnecessarily 
close.  Dr.  Mead,  as  near  his  patient  as  was 
consistent  with  delicacy,  was  lounging  in  a 
hammock,  and  smoking  a  good  cigar.  It  is 
a  tradition  in  Los  Angeles  clubdom  that  John 
Payson  imports  his  cigars  direct.  In  the 
middle-distance,  Mrs.  Payson  was  approach 
ing  with  a  cup  of  nourishing  beef-tea. 

Jimmy  Mason,  afraid  to  trust  himself  to 
the  expression  of  his  thoughts  in  the  presence 
of  ladies,  was  about  to  vanish  gracefully,  but 
Van  Dyke  caught  sight  of  them. 

"Hello,  fellows.  Hear  you  had  a  frost  in 
San  Diego,"  cried  he. 

"You  must  be  very  much  better — able  to 
be  moved,  I  notice,"  with  a  look  in  Jimmy's 
eyes  that  pointed  to  future  trouble. 

"Oh,"  said  the  Freshman,  "almost  re 
covered.  I've  had  the  very  best  of  care — 
and  a  very  satisfactory  nurse,"  and  for  the 
last  time,  in  this  story,  he  gazed  into  those 
Andalusian  eyes. 

"But  not  the  nurse  we  engaged,"  said  the 
aggrieved  Perkins. 

"No,"  said  Van,  "this  young  lady  was  en 
gaged  only  last  evening." 

"S-sh,"  said  Sefiora  Payson,  pointing  to 
the  open  window,  "Papa  may  hear  you." 


POCAHONTAS, 
FRESHMAN. 


Pocahontas,  Freshman. 

"But  when  they  lookt  round  for  the  Ladye  Pocahontas,  she 
hadde  gone  to  her  Yorke  woodes,  weepyng  they  saye." 

ROWE'S  LIFE  OF  POCAHONTAS. 

I. 

To  begin  with,  the  college  never  called  her 
Pocahontas  to  her  face,  and  no  one  would 
have  found  anything  pat  in  the  name  until  a 
long-remembered  spring  afternoon  in  her 
Freshman  year.  After  that  day,  although  her 
instructors  still  registered  her  as  Hannah 
Grant  Daly,  she  was  generally  known  as 
"Pocahontas."  Students  with  visitors  would 
point  her  out  in  the  Quad.  "That's  the  girl 
they  call  Pocahontas."  Then  they  would  tell 
briefly  her  story.  She  knew  through  her 
room-mate  that  the  college  had  nicknamed 
her,  and  she  grieved  over  it.  She  did  not 
know  that  John  Smith  himself  never  called 
her  Pocahontas;  she  had  never  dared  to  look 
at  him  since  the  day  they  had  named  her. 

Early  in  September  the  noon  train  brought 
her  through  the  oaks  and  the  burdened  olive 
orchards,  past  the  lonely  redwood  Tree  to  the 
University.  The  brakeman's  call:  "Next  sta 
tion  is  Palo  A-al-to!"  stirred  her  with  flutter- 


3°  Stanford  Stories. 

ing  excitement.  The  crowded  carriages  and 
people  at  the  station  bewildered  her.  Eager 
'busmen  struggled  for  the  hand-baggage  of 
strangers,  men  with  "Student  Transfer"  on 
their  caps  clamored  for  trunk-checks.  Fel 
lows  in  duck  seized  some  of  the  men  who 
came  down  the  car  steps,  carrying  away  their 
suit-cases  and  throwing  lusty  student  arms 
about  their  shoulders.  The  men  thus  wel 
comed  introduced  younger  fellows  and  the 
whole  group  piled  into  a  'bus  and  shouted 
"Rho  House,  Billy,"  to  the  driver. 

The  man  who  got  out  just  ahead  of  Poca- 
hontas  was  greeted  by  cries  of  "Come  on  you 
Ca-ap!"  and  "Hello,  Smithy,  old  boy!"  He 
was  evidently  someone  of  whom  they  were 
very  fond.  One  fat  fellow  with  a  comical 
face  hugged  him  theatrically.  Pocahontas 
watched  them  drive  away,  laughing  and  slap 
ping  one  another's  knees.  The  man  they 
called  Smithy  was  the  nicest  looking. 

She  had  given  her  new  valise  to  a  gray- 
haired  'busman  who  looked  a  little  like  the 
minister  at  home.  On  the  way  up  the  long 
avenue  of  palms  toward  the  sandstone  build 
ings  low  in  the  distance,  this  'busman  chatted 
kindly  with  her,  telling  her  wonderful,  almost 
incredible  things  about  the  University,  so  that 
she  began  to  feel  a  little  less  strange.  As  she 
paid  her  fare  in  front  of  the  Roble  he  said: 

"Now,  whenever  you  want  a  'bus,  Miss,  just 


{ 

Past  the  lonely  redwood  Tree  to  the  University 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  31 

ask  for  Uncle  John.  That's  what  they  call 
me." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Freshman,  gratefully, 
"I  will,— Uncle  John." 

She  passed  up  the  dormitory  steps,  run 
ning  awkwardly  the  gauntlet  of  experienced 
eyes  scanning  the  new  arrivals.  The  Theta 
Gammas  wrote  her  down  as  material  for  a 
quaint  little,  quiet  little  dig, — not  of  sorority 
interest.  One  of  them  ventured  that  there 
was  an  Oxford  teacher's  Bible  and  an  em 
broidered  mending-case  in  the  shiny  valise. 
Another  prophesied  that  the  newcomer  would 
wear  her  High  School  graduation-dress  to 
the  Freshman  reception.  These  ladies  had 
been  at  college  for  three  years  and  their  diag 
nosis  was  correct. 

So  Hannah  Grant  Daly  hopped  with  no 
unnecessary  flapping  of  wings  upon  her  perch 
in  the  Roble  dove-cote.  The  matron  put  her 
into  52  with  Lillian  Arnold,  a  Sophomore 
leader  of  local  society.  This  was  "to  make 
things  easier  for  her."  Their  wedded  life 
lasted  three  days.  It  was  long  after  lights 
when  Miss  Arnold  returned  the  first  night. 
Hannah  had  read  her  chapter  and  was  lying 
awake,  bravely  resisting  a  homesick  cry. 
Her  roommate  groped  in  with  an  animated 
tale  of  a  Freshman  spread  on  the  top  floor 
at  which  the  chief  attraction  had  been  oyster 
cocktails.  Pocahontas  shuddered.  In  imagi- 


32  Stanford  Stories. 

nation  she  detected  a  faint  odor  like  that  from 
her  mother's  medicine-closet 

"I'd  have  asked  you  to  go  along  with  me," 
apologized  Lillian,  scrambling  into  bed  with 
out  any  conventional  delay,  "but  I  thought 
you  wouldn't  care  for  such  things." 

"I  hope  I  never  shall,"  said  the  new  girl, 
solemnly,  and  turned  her  face  to  the  wall. 

The  following  morning  while  Pocahontas 
arranged  her  share  of  the  bureau,  the  Sopho 
more  draped  a  tennis  net  on  their  wall  and 
fixed  in  its  meshes  the  trophies  of  her  first 
year.  She  was  putting  a  photograph  in 
place  when  Hannah  spoke: 

"Who  is  that,  Miss  Arnold?" 

"That's  Jack  Smith,"  answered  Lillian; 
"stunning,  isn't  he?" 

"He's  very  interesting,  I  think.  He  was 
on  the  train  yesterday.  There  were  ever  so 
many  boys  to  meet  him." 

"He's  a  Beta  Rho, — belongs  to  that  fra 
ternity,  you  know.  They  have  a  swell  house 
here.  I  know  most  of  them  very  well, — been 
over  there,  to  dinner  several  times." 

"What  class  is  he  in?" 

"Mine, — Sophomore.  He's  a  splendid 
athlete, — football  and  pole-vaulting, — and  he 
sings  in  the  Glee  Club.  He  was  the  only 
Freshman  to  make  the  team  last  year, — he's 
really  a  perfect  hero." 

"I  knew  he  was  somebody  by  the  way  they 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  33 

acted  down  at  the  station.  I  think  he  has  a 
good  face."  The  new  girl  had  come  over 
from  the  bureau  and  was  looking  up  at  the 
picture  in  the  net. 

"Everybody  thinks  he  is  the  handsomest 
man  in  college.  You  wait  till  you  see  him  in 
his  red  sweater.  Don't  say  anything,  Han 
nah,  but  I'm  going  to  have  Jack  Smith  for 
my  very  own  this  year;  you  see  if  I  don't 
manage  it,"  and  Lillian,  laughing,  blew  a  light 
kiss  to  the  photograph. 

Decidedly  Pocahontas  disapproved  of  her 
room-mate.  Later,  when  she  found  that  a 
half-dozen  girls  who  had  dropped  in  after 
dinner  were  there  for  the  evening,  she  went 
out  into  a  music-room  to  look  at  her  new 
text-books.  Routed  from  here  by  more  but 
terflies,  with  "beaux,"  she  did  her  reading  on 
a  bench  in  the  hallway.  Another  day  and  she 
was  rooming  with  a  Junior  who  was  a  hard 
student.  Her  departure  caused  Miss  Arnold 
sincere  regret.  A  girl  she  knew  had  roomed 
with  a  Freshman  the  year  before  and  the 
child  adored  her  and  did  the  mending  of  both. 
Lillian  hated  to  sew. 

Pocahontas  had  been  at  college  a  week  and 
was  already  learning  that  it  is  not  necessary 
to  read  all  your  references  when  her  room 
mate,  coming  in  from  the  library  one  evening, 
mentioned  that  there  was  a  rush  going  on  over 
at  the  tank. 


34  Stanford  Stories. 

"A  rush?"  asked  Hannah,  "what  is  that?" 

"A  relic  of  barbarism;  they  ought  to  have 
put  a  stop  to  it  long  ago,  Professor  Grind 
says." 

"Yes,"  said  the  Freshman,  "but  what  do 
they  do?" 

"Oh,  get  out  and  fight  somehow, — I  don't 
know  just  how, — something  about  tying  up. 
Only  another  way  of  wasting  time,  Hannah," 
and  the  Junior  plunged  back  into  her  Livy. 

At  breakfast  Pocahontas  heard  Lillian  Ar 
nold  tell  about  going  over  to  the  baseball 
diamond  to  see  the  Sophomores  lying  tied  up 
beside  the  backstop,  and  what  a  joke  it  was 
on  her  own  class  and  what  a  ridiculous  figure 
Jack  Smith  had  made  in  the  coils  of  a  Fresh 
man's  trunk-rope,  with  his  face  and  hair  all 
grimy  with  perspiration  and  dust,  and  that 
laundry  agent,  Mason,  piled  on  top  of  him. 
Hannah  left  the  table  in  secret  excitement. 
Between  recitations  that  morning  she  met 
Pete  Halleck,  a  classmate  from  her  own  high 
school;  bursting  with  pride,  he  took  her  up  to 
the  Row  to  show  their  very  own  class  numer 
als  shining  high  on  the  tank,  and  she  realized 
vaguely  that  this  was  a  thing  of  which  she, 
too,  was  a  part.  There  grew  within  her  a 
longing  to  reach  out  a  little  toward  the  big, 
full  life  of  the  college,  to  know  something  of 
the  men  and  women  who  lived  it.  All  this 
was  very  wrong,  she  told  herself,  for  she  had 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  35 

come  here  to  study  hard.  She  had  only  two 
years  in  which  to  fit  herself  to  teach.  Here 
was  the  precious  book-knowledge  for  which 
she  had  hungered  and  pinched  so  long.  It 
must  not  be  neglected,  ever  so  little;  but  the 
enthusiasm  of  the  boy  with  her  was  infectious. 
In  her  soul  she  took  issue  with  the  views  of 
her  room-mate,  fortified  as  they  were  by  the 
approval  of  Professor  Grind. 

In  this  rebellious  mood  she  read  on  the  Hall 
bulletin-board  a  notice  of  the  reception  to  be 
given  to  new  students  by  the  Christian  Asso 
ciations.  Here  was  a  chance  to  satisfy  that 
wicked  craving  without  too  great  concession, 
for  of  course  there  would  be  no  dancing  and 
the  auspices  were  so  favorable.  She  spoke 
about  it  to  Katherine  Graham,  a  Junior,  who 
was  in  Lillian  Arnold's  "set,"  to  be  sure,  but 
who  had  put  her  arm  around  the  homesick 
little  Freshman  one  soft  evening  after  dinner 
when  the  girls  were  strolling  before  the  Half, 
and  had  drawn  her  down  the  walk  toward  the 
Ninety-five  Oak.  Katherine  was  a  fine,  frank 
girl  whose  talk  about  the  University  and  her 
love  for  the  campus  and  its  life  stirred  the 
new  girl's  pulses.  She  could  listen  with  un 
guarded  eagerness  to  this  Junior  because 
she  knew  her  to  be  a  student.  Pocahontas 
slipped  her  arm  wistfully  'round  her  friend's 
waist.  To  room  with  Miss  Graham  would 
have  been  perfect  happiness. 


36  Stanford  Stories. 

"Of  course  you'll  go,"  declared  Katherine, 
when  she  had  heard  the  Freshman's  con 
fidence  regarding  the  reception.  "It's  slow, 
sometimes,  but  you'll  meet  the  people  you 
want  to  know." 

So  out  came  the  plain  graduation-dress, 
folded  carefully  away  since  the  night  she  read 
the  valedictory,  three  months  ago;  she  sewed 
a  rip  in  the  gloves  saved  from  the  same  occa 
sion,  and  she  took  out  the  fan  which  her 
grandmother  had  given  her,  a  wonderful  fan 
she  had  considered  it  until  she  saw  a  few  of 
Lillian's. 

In  the  gymnasium  where  glistening  bamboo 
and  red  geraniums  screened  the  chest- 
weights  along  the  walls,  and  feathery 
branches  of  pepper  climbed  luxuriantly  over 
the  inclined  ladders,  she  found  the  crowd 
characteristic  of  this  occasion, — the  Fresh 
man  men  at  one  end,  the  Freshman  girls  at 
the  other,  and  between  them  a  neutral  zone 
of  old  students  chatting  gayly,-  oblivious  of 
the  purpose  of  the  affair.  Oh,  but  the  re 
ception  committee!  Save  for  these  inde 
fatigable  martyrs,  the  Freshman  sexes  might 
have  gazed  wistfully  at  each  other  across  the 
lines  of  upper  class-men  until  the  lights 
dipped  and  never  been  able  to  bow  on  the 
Quad  next  day.  Important-looking  persons 
with  silk  badges  and  worried  faces  circulated 
in  a  grim  endeavor  to  "mix  things  up."  One 


Poca/iontas,  Freshman.  37 

of  these  wild-eyed  people  would  dash  into  the 
crowd  and  haul  some  struggling  upper  class 
man  over  to  the  feminine  section.  With  his 
victim  in  tow,  he  would  open  conversation 
feverishly: 

"Name,  please? 

"Miss  Newcome." 

"Ah,  permit  me  to  introduce  Mr.  Oldman. 
Miss  Newcome,  Mr.  Oldman.  Isn't  it  warm 
to-night?  Fine  talk  of  the  Doctor's,  wasn't 
it?  Well,  you  must  excuse  me;  we're  very 
busy,"  the  last  words  dying  in  the  distance 
as  he  sped  away. 

Pocahontas  contrasted  this  chill  with  the 
warmth  of  church  socials  at  home.  She  felt 
disappointed  and  dreadfully  alone.  Her 
sober-minded  room-mate  was  bobbing  like  a 
pigeon  before  Professor  Grind,  enthusiasti 
cally  telling  him  "how  much  inspiration  she 
got  from  his  courses;"  Katherine  Graham 
was  lost  in  a  swirl  of  upper  class-men.  The 
Freshman  had  half  turned  toward  the  dress 
ing-room  when  out  of  the  press  came  Jack 
Smith,  big,  wholesome-looking,  still  smiling 
with  some  memory  of  his  latest  conversation. 
Why  did  Flannah  stop?  It  was  certainly 
bold, — doubtless  it  was  half-unconscious, — 
but  stop  she  did,  and  a  committee-man,  wheel 
ing  suddenly,  caught  Smith,  dashed  through 
the  preliminaries,  and  the  Sophomore  had 


38  Stanford  Stories. 

added  Hannah  Grant  Daly  to  the  list  of  his 
acquaintances. 

Now  "Cap"  Smith  had  not  come  to  this  re 
ception  to  meet  Freshman  girls — at  any  rate 
insignificant  ones  with  spectacles  and  sandy 
hair;  but  no  one  could  have  told  that  he  had 
not  begged  to  be  presented  to  this  one. 

"I'll  have  to  ask  you  the  same  question  we 
put  to  all,"  he  began,  smiling  pleasantly; 
"what's  your  major?" 

She  would  have  given  much  to  have 
answered  something  clever  or  interesting,  as 
no  doubt  other  girls  did,  but  she  could  only 
stammer : 

"Education." 

"You've  answered  so  promptly  I'll  let  you 
off  the  rest  of  the  text, — there  are  forty-two 
questions  in  all,  each  more  inquisitive  than 
the  last." 

The  Freshman  giggled;  she  did  not  know 
just  why,  unless  it  was  that  his  face  and 
merry  way  inspired  jollity. 

"Have  the  committee  on  irrigation  at 
tended  to  you  yet?" 

"I  don't  know;  I  have  registered,"  she 
faltered. 

He  laughed,  and  she  blushed  uncomfortably. 

"Oh,  pardon  me,"  he  said,  "I  must  go  slow 
with  my  slang;  you've  had  only  a  few  days 
to  learn  it.  I'm  just  joshing  the  weakness  of 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  39 

the  lemonade  the  Associations  give  us.  Let's 
try  some,  though;  shall  we?" 

They  made  their  way  to  the  lemonade 
booth.  Such  a  vain,  silly  little  Freshman  she 
was,  to  be  sweetly  conscious  that  people 
looked  after  them  as  she  passed  along  with 
this  handsome,  athletic  young  hero  whom 
everybody  admired.  Lillian  Arnold  was  in 
the  booth,  dividing  her  attention  between 
filling  glasses  and  entertaining  four  men.  She 
gave  Pocahontas  a  cool  bow  and  cast  a  look 
at  Smith  which  the  Freshman  interpreted 
"What  are  you  doing  with  her?"  At  the 
same  moment  Lillian  thought  of  a  foolish 
confidence  she  had  made  to  the  dig  when 
they  were  room-mates.  Jack,  however,  was 
describing  to  Hannah  the  recent  rush  and  the 
glory  of  her  class,  and  Lillian's  glances  were 
lost  upon  him.  The  lemonade  finished,  he 
took  the  Freshman  over  to  Professor  Craig's 
mother,  and  left  her  with  a  pleasant  fairy  tale 
about  meeting  her  again. 

"Who's  your  friend?"  laughed  Perkins,  as 
Smith  dived  back  into  his  own  element. 

"Some  little  Roble  dig.  Don't  ask  me  her 
name.  I  think  people  like  that  are  really 
lonesome,  Ted.  Say,  those  Phis  have  trotted 
Haviland  'round  long  enough.  Let's  break 
up  their  interference." 

Others  came  up  to  Mrs.  Craig,  and  Hannah 
found  herself  introduced  to  a  variety  of  men, 


4°  Stanford  Stories. 

but  she  cared  little  if  she  met  no  one  else  just 
then.  She  stood  watching  Jack  as  he  passed 
from  group  to  group,  chaffing  merrily,  shak 
ing  hands  with  many  people.  There  was  no 
one  else  in  the  room  so  well  worth  watclfing. 

That  night,  while  the  Junior  breathed  regu 
larly  on  her  side  of  the  alcove,  Pocahontas 
lay  a  long  time  thinking  dreamily.  She 
knew  he  would  be  like  that;  somehow  he  had 
looked  so  the  first  day  at  the  station  with  all 
those  noisy  boys.  She  should  have  answered 
something  more  than  yes  and  no  at  the  re 
ception.  He  would  think  her  stupid.  They 
had  given  her  advanced  standing  in  Latin; 
perhaps  he  would  be  in  the  class  when  it  met 
on  Monday;  it  would  be  splendid  if  he  were; 
lots  of  the  boys  walked  to  Roble  with  girls 
at  half-past-twelve;  she  would  ask  him  all 
about  the  football;  they  would  not  have  to 
talk  about  the  Latin; — she  felt  so  small  be 
side  him  as  they  went  along  the  board  walk — 
he  looked  down  at  her  and  laughed — there 
was  a  seat  under  the  Ninety-five  Oak — all  the 
other  people  were  talking,  a  long  way  off — 
the  lemonade  bowl  under  the  tree — shall  we — 

She  met  him  on  Monday  morning  near  the 
Chapel.  He  came  loafing  along  the  arcade, 
one  arm  flung  about  "Pellams"  Chase.  He 
looked  at  her  good-humoredly  a  second,  then, 
without  recognition,  glanced  over  her  head 
to  the  girl  behind  her. 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  4» 

Hannah's  heart  nearly  choked  her.  His 
having  forgotten  her  was  so  plain,  that  she 
had  not  dared  to  bow,  though  she  had  half 
done  so.  She  hoped  no  one  had  noticed  her 
face.  She  bit  her  lips.  He  had  not  meant  to 
do  it;  on  the  bed  in  her  room  she  told  herself 
this  over  and  over  again.  Their  meeting  in 
the  gymnasium  had  lasted  less  than  ten 
minutes.  It  was  two  days  ago.  She  was  not 
like  the  other  college  girls  he  knew.  Why 
should  he  remember  her,  having  seen  her 
once?  He  had  been  very  pleasant  to  her  at 
the  reception.  She  went  resolutely  down  to 
luncheon.  Cap.  Smith  was  still  her  hero. 

II. 

One  day  when  from  the  fences  along  the 
pastures  exultant  meadow-larks  were  shout 
ing  "April,"  trilling  the  "r"  ecstatically,  and 
mild-hearted  people  were  out  after  golden 
poppies,  the  Encina  Freshmen,  dark-browed 
plotters  every  villain  of  them,  met  in  Pete 
Halleck's  room.  There  was  trouble  brewing. 
First,  Pete  counted  them  with  an  air  of  mys 
tery;  then  he  pulled  down  the  window  shades, 
shut  the  transoms,  and  drew  from  the  wash- 
stand  a  tangled  mass  of  rope,  two  cans  of 
paint  and  a  coil  of  wire.  With  these  beside 
him  on  the  floor,  he  harangued  the  mob. 

"We  have  got  to  get  a  rush  out  of  'em, 


42  Stanford  Stories. 

fellows,"  he  said,  keeping  his  voice  discreetly 
low,  "and  if  they  won't  scrap,  we'll  force  'em. 
How  many  of  you  remember  how  to  tie  a 
knot?" 

"We've  had  experience  enough,"  spoke  up 
a  roly-poly  boy;  "it's  the  Sophs  who  need  a 
lesson  in  tying." 

"And  we'll  give  it!" 

Halleck  drew  up  and  looked  so  melo 
dramatically  important  that  the  meeting 
snickered  behind  their  collective  hands.  Just 
then  there  came  a  knock  at  the  door.  Hal 
leck  put  his  fingers  to  his  lips;  the  crowd  sat 
as  if  petrified;  the  roly-poly  conspirator  felt 
his  bravado  oozing  out  in  youthful  perspira 
tion.  The  knocking  came  again,  more  im 
peratively,  then  a  voice. 

"Let  me  in,  you  crazy  Freshies." 

Silence  in  the  room. 

"Let  me  in.  I  know  about  you.  You're 
all  in  there,  talking  rush.  Hang  your  little 
pink  skins,  let  me  in!" 

Still  no  answer. 

"Pete  Halleck,  unlock  your  door.  It's  I — 
it's  Frank  Lyman,  and  I've  something  to  say 
to  you  babies.  Open  up!" 

The  composite  face  of  the  gathering  fell. 
With  Lyman  against  them,  who  could  be  for 
them? — Frank  Lyman,  oracle  of  Encina  and 
father-confessor  of  Freshmen! 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  43 

Pete  threw  the  paraphernalia  into  his  ward 
robe. 

"The  game's  up,  fellows." 

He  opened  the  door,  admitting  the  Senior, 
and  with  him,  alas!  Sophomore  Smith,  Presi 
dent  of  his  class.  The  sight  of  the  enemy 
stirred  Halleck. 

"Say,  shall  we  tie  up  the  two  of  them?" 
cried  he,  when  he  had  locked  the  door. 

"Key  down,  Freshie,  key  down,"  said  the 
Senior.  "You  boys  pain  me  to  the  limit. 
Aren't  you  satisfied  with  tying  up  the  Sopho 
mores  once  without  scrapping  the  whole 
year  through?" 

"What  do  you  know  about  our  wanting  to 
scrap?" 

"I'm  on  to  you,  Peter:  You  have  a  ton  of 
rope  and  a  barrel  of  paint  somewhere  about 
your  den,  and  you're  going  out  to-morrow 
to  tie  up  the  Sophs  at  the  ball  game.  Now 
you  fellows  have  had  three  rushes  this  year; 
when  are  you  going  to  quit  and  give  us  a 
rest?" 

Halleck  held  the  position  that  delighted 
his  soul, — center  stage, — and  he  was  a  re 
specter  of  neither  the  Faculty  nor  his  seniors. 

"We're  going  to  quit  when  we  get  even 
with  you  for  pulling  twenty-five  lone  Fresh 
men  out  of  the  Hall  at  night  and  making  them 
rush  against  the  whole  Sophomore  class; 
then's  when  we're  going  to  quit.  Observe?" 


44  Stanford  Stories. 

Halleck's  shamefully  fresh  manner  revived 
the  drooping  spirits  of  his  men. 

"See  here,  we'll  call  it  off  if  vou  will,"  put 
in  the  Sophomore  president. 

"Yes,  I  guess  you  will,"  drawled  Halleck. 
The  mob  howled.  Smith's  class  was  notor 
iously  weaker  at  fighting  than  their  own. 

"We've  rushed  you  three  times,"  went  on 
Cap;  "you  licked  us  the  first  time  we  fought; 
then  you  pulled  us  out  in  the  mud  the  night 
after  and  did  it  again;  but  we  got  you  the 
next  week  by  strategy!" 
"By  a  sneaking  trick!" 
"That's    right!"    chimed    the     Freshmen, 
"Pete's  dead  right!" 

"Well,  say,"  persisted  Smith,  "we're  willing 
to  quit  as  it  is.  The  score  stands  two  to  one 
for  you  fellows,  too." 

"Two  to  nothing!"  and  again  the  infant 
class  shouted  approval  while  Lyman,  the 
Senior,  looked  on  amused. 

"I  really  have  a  chap  for  you  children,"  he 
said.  "Just  because  rushing  happens  to  be 
your  game,  you  run  it  to  death.  How  do  you 
suppose  the  Faculty  are  going  to  look  at  this 
thing?  If  you  want  rushing  choked  off  en 
tirely  next  year,  just  keep  on." 

Airily  ignoring  Lyman's  speech,  Pete  Hal 
leck  put  his  chin  out  at  the  Sophomore. 
"Then  you  won't  rush?" 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  45 

"No,"  answered  Cap,  perfectly  calm,  "not 
even  if  you  carry  canes." 

Halleck's  face  shone. 

"Ai — i,  boys,  that's  what  we'll  do!  We'll 
get  out  there  with  canes  to-morrow  and  we'll 
make  'em  scrap!" 

"Yes,  you  will!  I  believe  it,"  sneered 
Smith.  "You  fellows  are  just  fresh  enough 
to  queer  yourselves  that  way." 

"We'll  queer  you!"  cried  a  valiant  young 
ster-  "if  you  don't  rush  to-morrow  we'll  tie 
up  your  baseball  team  and  cart  'em  off  to 
Redwood." 

"Yes,  sir,  and  we'll  show  you  how  a  class 
president  looks  braided  with  bailing-rope, — 
we'll  show  you  the  pretty  picture  in  a  mirror, 
Mr.  President, — even  if  we  have  to  haul  you 
out  of  the  arms  of  twenty  Roble  dames." 

Pete  had  taken  his  class-mates  by  storm 
and  they  piped  acquiescence  in  thin  Fresh 
man  voices.  Smith  flushed  angrily. 

Here  Lyman  interfered. 

"All  right,  make  joshes  of  yourselves  if 
you  want  to,"  he  said,  not  so  good-natured  as 
at  first.  "We  have  given  you  warning.  Just 
open  that  door  and  you  may  go  on  with  your 
little  conspiracy." 

"Come  again  when  you  can't  stay  so  long," 
wittily  yelled  Pete  down  the  hall.  "I'll  meet 
you  on  the  field  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  we'll  be  there,"  called  back  Lyman 


46  Stanford  Stories. 

over  his  shoulder.  "So  will  the  Faculty," 
and  with  this  covert  hint  the  peacemakers 
turned  the  corner. 

The  sun  shown  brightly  on  the  red-brown 
earth  of  the  diamond  when  the  Freshmen,  the 
Sophomores  and  the  Faculty  met,  according 
to  agreement.  The  enterprising  student- 
body  management  had  chalked  the  Quad  in 
conspicuous  places: 

RUSH  of  the  YEAR, 

Sophomore-Freshman  Game. 

Don't  Miss  It! 

and  the  college  responded.  The  co-eds  were 
there,  radiant  in  the  snowiest  of  duck  shirts, 
the  gayest  of  shirt-waists.  With  them  were 
"ladies'  men,"  in  variegated  golf-stockings 
and  gorgeous  hat-bands.  The  Freshmen, 
gathered  near  first  base,  contrasted  disrepu 
tably  with  this  display;  they  wore  old  clothes, 
ragged  hats,  and  they  carried  a  miscellaneous 
collection  of  canes,  borrowed  from  Juniors  or 
stolen  from  Sophomores. 

These  stalwarts  of  the  latest  class  were 
loaded  with  horns  and  noise-machines.  De 
fiance  exhaled  from  them.  It  was  an  im 
pressive  object-lesson  on  the  evils  of  Fresh 
man  victories. 

A  few  sensible  Juniors  went  over  and  tried 
to  quell  their  disturbance,  but  the  infants 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  47 

were  beyond  any  control  of  their  class 
fathers;  they  had  at  their  head  the  redoubt 
able  Pete  Halleck,  with  his  perverted  sense 
of  the  proprieties,  and  their  uproar  moderated 
not  a  bit.  The  Juniors  returned  to  the 
bleachers,  shaking  their  heads  in  disgust. 
Professor  Grind,  of  the  Committee  on  Student 
Affairs,  was  observed  to  write  in  his  note 
book.  The  Sophomores  who  saw  this  re 
joiced  that  they  were  not  in  rushing  clothes. 
Still  the  racket  went  on. 

Jack  Smith,  in  spotless  tennis  flannels,  sat 
on  the  bleachers.  Some  girls  from  San  Fran 
cisco,  and  one  in  particular  as  far  as  Cap  was 
concerned,  had  come  down  with  Tom  Ash 
ley's  mother  that  morning,  and  he  brought 
them  over  to  the  game.  Pete  Halleck  picked 
him  out  at  once  and  reminded  the  others  of 
their  promise. 

Hannah  Grant  Daly,  who  did  not  know  him 
to  speak  to,  also  picked  him  out.  To  her  he 
looked  more  goodly  than  ever  this  afternoon, 
contrasted  with  the  uncouthness  of  Halleck 
and  others  of  her  class.  She  watched  him 
covertly,  laughing  and  talking  with  the  town 
girl  beside  him.  He  had  laughed  and  talked 
very  much  like  that  to  her,  once,  but  he  had 
forgotten  it.  That  was  natural;  she  had  for 
given  it  long  ago.  Lillian  Arnold,  in  the 
brightest  of  Easter  hats,  watched  him,  too. 

The  game  was  not  exciting.    The  Fresh- 


48  Stanford  Stories. 

men  were  badly  outplayed;  the  Sophomores 
galloped  around  the  bases,  and  the  babies' 
insolence  grew  with  their  opponents'  score. 
As  the  last  inning  dragged  its  tedious  length, 
the  prospect  of  the  Freshmen  forcing  a  rush 
had  become  the  important  thing  with  the 
crowd.  The  fighting  class  limbered  up  for 
action.  Now  their  third  man  struck  out  and 
the  catcher's  mask  was  off. 

"Ready!"  Pete  Halleck's  voice  came  out 
of  the  silence  of  the  waiting  crowd. 

"All  set!"  and  the  class  was  up  and  off  on 
a  trot  toward  the  Sophomore  players,  who 
were  trying  not  to  walk  away  any  faster  than 
was  usual.  One  after  another  the  baseball 
men  were  overtaken  and  went  down  in  clouds 
of  dust  and  hard  language. 

Yet  the  Sophomores  would  not  rush. 
Frank  Lyman  had  exhorted  them  simply, 
while  the  Freshmen  were  attacking  their  nine. 
One  or  two  of  the  hot-heads  hurried  to  the 
Hall  for  old  clothes,  but  the  majority  stood 
looking  on,  angry  but  quiet. 

"Now  for  Smith!"  yelled  Halleck.  His 
men  turned  toward  the  co-ed  section  of  the 
bleachers. 

"Shall  we  get  out  of  this?"  Cap  asked  Ash 
ley. 

"Get  out  nothing!  Stay  right  here  with 
the  girls.  They  wouldn't  have  the  gall." 

But  the  lust  of  fight  was  in  the  Freshman 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  49 

heart  as  the  dust  of  fight  was  on  the  Fresh 
man  skin.  They  lined  up,  a  ragged  mass  of 
impertinence,  as  near  the  women  as  they 
dared,  and  waited  for  the  leader  of  the  oppo 
sition.  He  chatted  on,  explaining  the  college 
rush  to  the  girl  with  him,  and  gave  no  sign  of 
moving. 

"Shall  we  go  in  and  take  him?"  asked  an 
excited  youngster. 

"I'll  give  him  a  chance  to  come  easy,"  said 
Halleck.  He  squared  himself,  adjusted  his 
dusty  hat,  and  went  straight  up  the  steps. 

"Excuse  me,  Mr.  Smith,"  said  he,  "you  are 
forgetting  an  engagement  you  made  with 
some  of  your  friends  yesterday." 

This  was  the  freshest  thing  in  the  history 
of  the  college.  The  Sophomore's  fingers 
twitched. 

"I  think  you  can  wait  until  later,  Halleck," 
he  said  slowly.  Then  he  turned  to  the  girl. 

From  the  time  Halleck  climbed  the  bleach 
ers  and  went  toward  Smith  and  his  guests,  the 
spectators  were  stiff  with  astonishment;  no 
body  did  anything.  They  saw  Halleck  look 
for  one  moment  into  Smith's  angry  blue  eyes, 
go  down  the  steps,  and  bring  back  two  big 
fellows.  Before  the  Sophomore  could  move 
away  from  the  girls,  the  three  men  had 
dragged  him  down  the  bleachers;  one  heave 
of  Halleck's  broad  back  and  Smith  was  under 


5°  Stanford  Stories. 

them,  with  his  wind  gone,  and  a  Freshman 
was  getting  a  rope  ready. 

Then  just  as  Ashley  tore  down  the  steps  in 
a  rage,  a  slip  of  a  girl  darted  past  him  and 
put  her  hands  on  Halleck's  shoulders;  a  small, 
sandy-haired  girl  with  blazing  eyes. 

"Untie  him,  you  great  brutes!"' 

The  man  with  the  rope  stared  at  her  ir 
resolutely,  furtively  slipping  the  knot  tighter. 
By  this  time,  Halleck  was  on  his  feet  again 
and  had  recovered  from  his  surprise. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  began. 

The  girl  looked  him  in  the  eye. 

"Get  that  rope  off!" 

She  was  just  a  little  thing,  but  her  gaze 
never  wavered.  The  direct  gaze  is  some 
thing  that  wild  beasts  and  bullies,  Freshmen 
or  otherwise,  cannot  bear.  Pete  Halleck 
looked  around  for  moral  support,  but  his 
men  were  shame-faced  and  the  bleachers  were 
silent.  He  bent  down  and  slipped  the  rope 
off  Smith's  feet. 

With  the  rout  of  their  leader  the  whole 
fighting  class,  weighing  some  ten  tons  in 
battle  trim,  vanished  like  chaff  before  the 
spirit  of  one  Freshie  co-ed.  By  twos  and 
threes  they  slouched  away,  trying  to  look 
unconcerned. 

She  turned  to  the  man  she  had  rescued. 

"Are  you  much  hurt,  Mr.  Smith?"  she 
asked,  her  voice  sweet  with  sympathy. 


Pocahontas,  Freshman.  51 

The  Sophomore  president  stood  there, 
rumpled,  winded,  flaming  with  embarrass 
ment.  Away  up  on  the  bleachers  a  girl  in 
an  Easter  hat  tittered  and  a  general  laugh 
followed.  That  laugh  brought  Smith  to  him 
self,  but,  before  he  could  turn  to  thank  her, 
Hannah,  with  a  swift,  frightened  glance  at  the 
people,  had  fled  to  the  Quadrangle.  With 
swelling  bosom  and  eyes  stinging  with  re 
strained  tears  she  leaned  her  face  against  a 
cool  pillar  and  watched  the  swallows  circle 
mistily  about  the  red  tiling. 

People,  coming  from  the  ball-ground, 
passed  her,  unnoticed  in  the  shadow.  A 
man's  voice,  ringing  with  merriment,  cried: 

"Poor  old  Captain!  I  never  saw  him  have 
such  a  chap.  It's  pretty  hard  on  a  man  to 
have  a  girl  do  the  Pocahontas  act  like  that!" 

A  peal  of  Roble  laughter  answered. 

"Pocahontas!  O — oh,  that's  a  cute  name 
for  her!" 


HIS  UNCLE'S  WILL. 


His  Uncle's  Will. 


"It's  a  wise   child  that   resembles   its   richest   relative." 

MODERN    PROVERB. 

Walter  Olcott  Haviland  came  to  Stanford 
in  September  at  the  age  of  eighteen,  and  was 
rushed  by  the  fraternities. 

There  is  nothing  remarkable  about  this, 
unless  considered  from  Haviland's  point  of 
view.  With  his  High  School  pin  illuminating 
the  vest  on  which  a  mystic  Greek  symbol  was 
ere  long  to  shine,  he  passed  down  the  line  of 
inquisitive  Sophomores  in  Encina  lobby,  and 
into  the  Den  of  the  Bear,  presented  his  re 
ceipt  for  the  room  he  had  prudently  engaged 
months  ahead,  and  was  duly  bestowed  within 
those  plain  white  walls  between  which  the 
Freshman  begins  a  charmed  existence  of 
four  years  or  four  months,  as  the  Committee 
may  determine. 

It  is  recorded  that  once  before  Commence 
ment  two  Seniors  came  from  fraternity 
houses  at  opposite  ends  of  the  campus  and 
slept  together  the  last  night,  as  they  had 
slept  their  first,  in  their  Freshman  room  at  the 
Hall.  They  had  been  rivals  and  in  warring 


S6  Stanford  Stories. 

factions,  but  they  lay  down  together  in  that 
place  of  beginnings,  before  a  new  heaven 
opened  for  them  over  a  new  earth.  This  is 
proof  positive  that  you  never  forget  your 
first  room  in  the  Hall.  You  may  give  it  up 
for  an  attic  in  a  chapter-house,  you  may  go 
to  live  with  young  Freshleigh,  with  whom 
you  are  already  chums,  and  whose  apartment 
has  the  morning  sun;  but  the  first  room  is  a 
foundation  stone  in  your  house  of  memories. 
Your  trunk  is  brought  in  by  the  Student 
Transfer  man  (first  lesson  in  self-help)  and 
put  down  near  the  dreary-looking  beds  with 
their  mattresses  doubled  on  the  foot-rail. 
Then,  sitting  down  by  the  bare,  shining  table 
where,  later  on,  theses  are  to  be  written  and 
punches  brewed,  you  stake  out  claims  for  the 
decorative  material  in  your  trunk.  Certainly 
decorations  are  needed.  The  wardrobe 
stands  forbiddingly  against  the  wall.  You 
will  soon  learn  how  to  move  it  forward,  re 
verse  it,  and  adorn  the  back.  The  chilling 
whiteness  of  the  walls  is  relieved  only  by  one 
square,  uncompromising  mirror.  An  "Adder- 
sonian"  tenderness  has  placed  a  yellow-flow 
ered  rug  beside  each  bed.  Otherwise,  the 
place  is  barren. 

If  there  is  time  before  dinner,  you  swallow 
your  loneliness  and  get  out  the  home  photo 
graphs  and  stand  them  up  here  and  there, 
and  the  room  is  changed.  These  walls  may 


His  Uncle's  Will.  57 

become  a  scrap-book  of  four  years'  associa 
tion  with  Alma  Mater;  the  wardrobe  may  be 
hidden  with  kodaks  of  the  gang  and  its  ex 
ploits;  but  to-day,  before  you  have  even  met 
the  gang,  you  come  into  your  own. 

The  newly-arrived  Haviland,  in  the  throes 
of  this  emotion,  looks  about  him.  He  has 
put  upon  the  ugly  commode  sundry  pictures 
of  his  graduating  class  at  the  High  School, 
each  one  dressed  in  his  best,  each  flanked  by 
floral  offerings,  each  holding  the  impressive 
diploma.  Later,  these  portraits  will  be  less 
prominent  in  this  college  room. 

He  looks  at  them  with  a  feeling  of  pity. 
It  must  be  hard  not  to  come  to  college.  He 
is  a  lucky  boy.  Sliding  unobtrusively  into 
the  hall-way,  he  strikes  up  an  acquaintance 
with  some  other  social  Freshman,  and  to 
gether  they  watch  the  upper  class-men  com 
ing  in.  Man  after  man  drifts  into  the  arms 
of  waiting  friends.  How  well  they  all  know 
one  another!  Gradually  he  learns  who  and 
what  these  men  are,  the  Seniors  who  manage 
the  Hall  or  edit  the  College  papers,  the  'Var 
sity  idols,  the  men  who  make  College  life. 
Important  beings  they  seem  to  the  Freshman, 
men  who  have  reached  heights  above  his 
modest  possibilities,  heroes  who  are  great  in 
the  land.  After  dinner  he  mingles  in  the 
stag  dances  on  the  second  floor  hall-way; 
finding  that  a  fellow  class-man  has  neglected 


58  Stanford  Stories. 

the  graceful  art,  he  takes  him  up  on  the  third 
floor  and  teaches  him  the  step.  He  is  fitting 
in,  you  see.  Then  he  hears  the  crowd  surg 
ing  into  the  lobby  and  picks  up  the  chorus 
of  "We'll  rush  the  ball  along,"  and  before 
this  first  day  is  over  he  catches  the  contagion 
of  that  intangible,  pervasive,  never  wholly 
fading  thing,  College  spirit. 

Jimmy  Mason,  Sophomore,  hustling 
Student-Body  assessments,  drops  in  on  him, 
and  stops  to  chat  awhile.  Haviland  learns 
that  our  team  this  year  has  lost  such  and  such 
valuable  men;  that  there  are  opportunities  for 
a  chap  with  football  in  him.  The  Freshman 
thinks  of  the  day  when  the  crowd  at  home 
cheered  him  as  his  school  beat  the  Academy. 
He  hands  Mason  the  assessment  money,  be 
ing  beautifully  green  yet.  Like  oases  are 
these  Freshmen  to  the  Student-Body  col 
lector.  Very  likely  the  Sophomore  rewards 
him  by  coming  to  his  door,  after  the  lights 
are  out,  at  the  head  of  a  motley  mob.  They 
put  him  on  the  table,  shivering  in  his  nightie, 
and  make  derogatory  remarks  about  his 
shape  and  his  personal  charms;  then,  having 
solemnly  baptised  him  "Callipers,"  or  what 
ever  metaphorical  name  his  physical  archi 
tecture  may  suggest,  they  make  him  cavort 
for  their  delectation.  If  he  shows  modesty 
and  courage  in  his  unhappy  obedience,  he  is 
greeted  as  a  nice  little  boy  and  is  introduced 


His  Uncle's  Will.  59 

to  his  tormentors,  who  explain  that  the  ritual 
was  offered  from  the  kindest  motives.  Doubt 
less  it  is  this  knowledge  that  makes  him  enjoy 
so  keenly  the  sacrifice  of  fellow  class-men,  at 
which  he  is  permitted  to  be  present  the  next 
evening. 

When  he  is  spoken  to  mysteriously  one 
night  by  "Pellams"  Chase,  a  Junior  from  the 
Row,  and  told  to  put  on  his  oldest  clothes 
and  to  get  his  trunk-rope  ("to  rope  up  a 
Sophomore's  trunk  this  time,"  hints  the 
Junior),  for  the  first  time  he  sees  his  class 
as  a  whole,  and  stands  shoulder  to  shoulder 
with  them  in  the  first  College  rush.  The 
subsequent  pullings  and  haulings,  the  pound 
ings  and  jammings  of  this  experience  are 
happily  compensated  for  if  Chase  takes  him 
when  all  is  over,  binds  up  his  bruises  and 
tells  him  about  fights  of  other  days  when 
there  were  giants  upon  the  campus.  After 
this,  the  College  is  never  the  immense,  far 
away  thing  it  has  seemed.  He  has  seen  his 
own  class-men  together,  he  has  measured 
his  strength  with  the  dread  Sophs,  he  is  a 
University  man. 

Long  before  this  the  fraternities  have 
spotted  him. 


"What  are  you  going  to  do  next  hour?" 
Haviland    had    just    come    out    from    his 


60  Stanford  Stories. 

nine-thirty  recitation  and  found  "Cap"  Smith 
waiting  for  him.  Smith  was  a  Beta  Rho,  and 
he  had  waited  there  in  the  same  way  for  the 
same  Freshman  more  than  once  in  the  month 
since  the  opening.  It  was  Pellams  who  had 
discovered  the  boy,  one  night  in  Mason's 
room,  where  the  Junior  loafed  half  his  time. 
Pellams  had  a  big  heart  surely,  for  he  had  at 
once  interested  himself  in  Haviland,  asking 
him  over  to  dinner  to  meet  the  fellows.  The 
Freshman  knew  it  was  the  Juniors'  duty  to 
look  after  the  infant  class.  This  particular 
Junior  was  a  College  favorite, — Walt  had  seen 
that — and  the  boy  from  far-away  New  Eng 
land  went  across  the  campus  to  the  Row 
feeling  that  he  was  getting  into  good  hands. 
The  Rho  house  seemed  about  right.  Dinner 
was  a  boisterous  affair  where  the  men  took 
hands  around  the  table  and  sang  a  rollicking 
accompaniment  to  Pellams'  coon  songs, 
strange  table-manners  that  did  not  appear 
much  to  disturb  Perkins'  mother,  who 
poured  coffee  at  the  end.  Afterward  they 
all  sat  out  on  the  porch  steps  in  the  summer 
evening  with  their  pipes,  watching  three  of 
the  men  play  catch.  One  of  the  fellows 
danced  a  shuffle  while  the  rest  stood  around 
and  clapped  time  and  shouted,  "Come  on  you 
Nigger!"  They  were  very  happy;  it  was  a 
bully  way  to  live;  the  homelike  look  of  things 
appealed  to  the  Freshman.  Two  of  the  fel- 


His  Uncle's  Will.  <*' 

lows  walked  back  to  the  Hall  with  him,  and 
when  they  said  good-night  they  shook  his 
hand  strongly  and  hoped  they  would  see 
more  of  him. 

This  was  the  beginning.  The  college  had 
become  aware  of  his  presence  now.  So  far 
he  had  taken  just  nine  meals  that  he  had  paid 
for,  and  had  been  away  from  the  Hall  one 
night  out  of  four. 

At  the  reception  to  the  Freshmen  he  had 
been  introduced  to  the  same  Faculty  people 
six  times  over  by  members  of  as  many  fra 
ternities,  each  presenting  him  as  an  individ 
ual  entirely  under  their  auspices  and  for 
whom  they  alone  were  responsible.  Hig- 
gins,  the  sky-scraping  Beta  Phi,  whom  he  had 
met  only  that  evening,  took  him  arm  in  arm 
up  to  the  President's  wife,  and  said: 

"I  want  to  introduce  Mr.  Haviland,  a  par 
ticular  friend  of  mine.  You  will  be  good  to 
him  for  my  sake,  won't  you?"  And  the  lady 
with  a  twinkle  in  her  brown  eyes,  having  re 
cently  promised  to  do  the  same  for  Jack 
Smith's  sake,  pledged  her  favors  anew  to  the 
bewildered  Walt. 

Haviland  did  not  quite  understand  this  atti 
tude  of  open  arms.  His  first  days  in  the  Hall 
had  not  prepared  him  for  it.  He  did  not 
know  that  because  he  was  well-bred,  well- 
dressed  and  athletically  promising,  he  was 


62  Stanford  Stories. 

generally  voted  the  prize  Freshman  of  the 
year. 

Then  came  the  bids.  There  were  only  a 
few  of  the  crowds  that  did  not  spike  him; 
three  who  were  manifestly  not  of  his  style  and 
two  who  never  presumed  to  enter  the  game 
until  the  others  had  made  their  winnings. 
All  sorts  of  methods  had  been  used.  The 
first  bid  came  early;  he  was  given  twenty-four 
hours  to  answer  it,  as  "the  Gamma  Chi  Tau 
never  wait  for  a  man."  The  Freshman, 
however,  getting  riper  in  the  sun  of  experi 
ence,  interpreted  this  to  mean  fear  of  com 
petition,  and  so  "declined  with  assurances  of 
continued  friendship."  There  was  a  crowd 
who  slapped  him  on  the  back  and  called  him 
"old  man."  Once  he  had  been  fresh  enough 
to  tell  them  a  story,  and  they  had  laughed  so 
uproariously  over  it  that  he  was  dreadfully 
embarrassed.  The  hospitality  of  another  set 
seemed  to  consist  of  a  sly  but  systematic  at 
tempt  to  get  him  drunk  for  some  mysterious 
purpose  of  their  own.  He  had  put  some  of 
them  to  bed  and  felt  superior,  which  was  fatal 
to  their  chances. 

He  had  been  to  many  varieties  of  dinner- 
tables.  Some  of  them  were  homelike;  the 
talk  at  others  had  robbed  him  of  appetite. 

"What  do  you  think  of  our  crowd?"  asked 
Roach,  keenly,  after  a  particularly  disagree- 


His   Uncle's  Will.  63 

able  meal  at  which  there  had  been  much 
coarseness  and  a  wreck  of  a  tablecloth. 

"They  seem  to  me  to  be  about  the  most 
congenial  fellows  I  ever  met,"  answered  the 
disgusted  but  tactful  Haviland,  and  Roach, 
going  back  to  his  house,  announced  authorita 
tively  that  the  boy  was  theirs  if  they  wanted 
him. 

By  this  time  he  had  learned  the  art  of  dodg 
ing  invitations  and  remaining  non-committal 
when  asked,  "Well,  Walt,  are  you  going  to 
do  the  right  thing?"  Many  a  set,  piled  upon 
the  beds  in  a  fraternity  room,  sat  up  late  talk 
ing  him  over  and  wondering  how  he  was 
"coming  on." 

The  Beta  Phis,  for  instance,  were  in  pain 
ful  doubt.  They  were  conscious  of  a  com 
paratively  poor  stack-up,  but  their  rushing 
energy  was  admirable,  and  once  the  perse 
cuted  Haviland  had  been  obliged  to  ask  a 
Beta  Rho  to  hide  him  from  them.  Pellams 
and  Smith  were  merry  at  dinner  that  night. 

In  his  heart,  Walt  had  about  decided  on 
Beta  Rho.  This  crowd  treated  him  with  well- 
bred  cordiality  but  with  far  less  effusiveness 
than  the  others.  He  was  pleased  when  they 
had  let  him  mix  with  them  without  permit 
ting  him  to  forget  the  gulf  between.  This 
had  put  him  off  his  guard  so  that  he  had 
grown  accustomed  to  them.  Observing  him 
expertly  from  the  corners  of  their  eyes,  they 


64  Stanford  Stories. 

affected  not  to  notice  the  way  he  blushed 
after  having  joined  unconsciously  in  a  Beta 
Rho  song.  One  day  he  dropped  over  unin 
vited,  and  they  understood.  But  in  the  first 
week  of  their  acquaintance  they  had  told  him 
to  hold  off  and  be  slow  about  pledging  him 
self,  and  nothing  more  had  been  said  so  far. 

On  the  night  of  the  first  rush,  ending  in 
complete  victory  for  the  Freshmen,  Haviland 
had  been  so  unfortunate  as  to  clinch  with  Cap 
Smith,  and  he  was  largely  responsible  for  the 
ignominious  tying  up  of  that  husky  Sopho 
more.  He  would  much  rather  have  been 
carted  off  himself,  if  it  hadn't  been  for  the 
class.  He  saw  his  Beta  Rho  chances  vanish 
ing.  Pellams  evidently  did  not  know  what 
had  happened,  he  was  so  good  to  him  after 
it,  rubbing  his  bruises  and  dressing  his 
scraped  cheek.  The  next  day  Cap  Smith 
came  over  and  bid  him  to  the  fraternity.  As 
a  matter  of  principle,  Haviland  asked  for  a 
week  to  decide. 

This  indulgence  was  up  to-day  and  now 
Cap  was  waiting  for  him  after  the  second- 
hour  class.  Walt  knew  what  answer  he 
should  give.  He  felt  very  contented. 

"I  got  your  mail  for  you,"  said  Smith, 
handing  him  an  envelope.  "I've  a  letter  of 
my  own  to  read,  so  tackle  yours  while  we 
walk  along." 

They  went  up  toward  the  stock-farm,  and 


His  Uncle's  Will.  65 

the  boy  opened  his  mother's  letter  and  read 
eagerly  the  home  news  and  the  affectionate 
questions.  She  enclosed,  she  said,  the  check 
which  his  uncle,  who  was  putting  him  through 
College,  had  sent  for  October.  Following 
this  were  a  few  words  that  made  him  stare 
hard  at  the  road  before  him,  as  he  and  Smith 
strolled  on.  "Your  uncle  writes,"  said  the 
letter,  "that  when  he  was  at  Amherst  he  was 
a  fraternity  man,  and  thinks  you  ought  to  be 
one,  and  he  would  like  to  have  you  join  the 
society  to  which  he  belonged,  the  Beta  Phi. 
I  am  sure,  Wo  dear,  you  will  follow  his 
wishes  in  a  matter  like  this.  It  is  not  much 
to  do  in  return." 

Poor  Walt!  The  Beta  Rhos  had  never 
seemed  such  smooth  fellows  as  at  this  mo 
ment  when  he  felt  himself  suddenly  pledged 
to  the  Beta  Phis.  In  his  mind's  eye  the  Phis 
passed  before  him,  one  by  one,  particularly  a 
certain  long,  unprepossessing  member  who 
had  stayed  till  after  twelve  one  night  and 
bored  him  with  a  dreary  recital  of  the  promi 
nence  of  his  house  in  College  politics,  of  the 
stump  speeches  that  a  former  brother,  now  a 
historical  personage,  had  made  in  Mayfield 
for  prohibition,  to  say  nothing  of  the  essay 
prizes  in  philology  that  another  ancient  Phi 
had  won  in  the  dim  past,  when  the  chapter 
must  have  been  more  prominent  than  at  pres 
ent.  In  comparison  with  this  record,  the 


66  Stanford  Stones. 

Rhos  were  numbskulls,  dwelling  in  an  ampli 
fied  smoking-room,  Walt  must  admit;  their 
control  of  the  Eleven  and  of  the  Glee  Club 
was  nothing.  And  now  his  future  was  black 
with  philology  prizes,  with  meals  at  which 
stew  was  a  staple,  and  where  only  visitors  had 
clean  napkins. 

The  two  fellows  had  by  this  time  reached 
the  trotting  stables.  They  looked  in  at  the 
beautiful,  sleek  racers,  carefully  blanketed  and 
booted,  and  stroked  an  inquisitive  nose  or 
two,  reached  out  over  the  white  doors.  Then 
they  went  on  up  the  stock-farm  yard  and 
along  the  road  to  the  bridge  over  San  Fran- 
cisquito.  Here  Smith  stopped;  leaning  on 
the  rail,  he  looked  down  at  his  blonde  image 
in  the  shallow  water  below. 

"Well,  Professor,  what's  your  answer? 
You  ought  to  know  your  mind  by  this  time, 
surely,  and  we  want  you  bad,  my  boy." 

"Cap,  old  man,"  began  the  Freshman,  his 
voice  a  little  husky,  for  he  was  sorely  troubled, 
"you  must  know  how  I  appreciate  the  way 
you  fellows  have  treated  me,  and  that  I  want 
you  particularly  for  a  friend."  He  stopped, 
but  Smith  kept  silent.  The  fraternity  had  had 
refusals  before;  they  usually  began  this  way. 

"I  don't  know  just  what  I  ought  to  say," 
went  on  the  luckless  Walt.  "I  really  did 
think  you  were  the  crowd  I  should  join,  but 
something  has  come  up  and  I  can't  say  yes." 


His  Uncle's  Will.  6? 

"What  is  it?  Is  it  because  you  think  we 
don't  study  enough?  We  do,  though,  a  great 
deal  more  than  it  looks.  This  has  been  rush 
ing  season  and  we  had  to  do  the  entertaining 
stunt  a  lot,  and  Pellams  would  give  any  crowd 
the  look  of  bumming.  We  really  do  work 
hard  the  rest  of  the  year.  " 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Walt,  "it  isn't  anything  like 
that,  Cap." 

"There's  somebody  in  the  gang  that  you 
don't  like,  then;  somebody  that  you  don't 
know  well  and  don't  understand.  Isn't  that 
so?  Who  is  it?  You  ought  to  tell  me." 

"I  would,  Cap,  if  that  were  the  reason,  but 
it  isn't.  I  like  every  man  of  them  all." 

"What  is  it  then?" 

"Nothing  that  I  can  tell  you."  Poor  Walt, 
he  was  ashamed  of  his  uncle;  Lyman  at  the 
Hall  had  told  him  that  .the  whole  Beta  Phi 
fraternity  was  as  scrubby  as  their  Stanford 
chapter. 

Cap's  eyes  had  an  angry  gleam.  "Some 
body  has  been  throwing  mud,"  he  said,  kick 
ing  up  a  splinter  from  the  bridge  floor. 
"There  are  plenty  of  them  to  do  it." 

"It  isn't  that  at  all.  I  wouldn't  be  in 
fluenced  that  way,"  protested  Haviland.  "It's 
another  matter." 

"Well,  I  suppose  this  is  final,"  said  Smith, 
struggling  hard  with  his  disappointment.  The 


68  Stanford  Stories. 

Freshman's  past  attitude  had  paved  the  way 
for  a  different  answer. 

"Let's  not  say  that,"  Walt  began  slowly. 
"Give  me  a  while  longer,  Cap;  things  may 
change.  I  had  hoped — "  He  broke  off; — 
he  could  never  tell  Smith — he  had  not  until 
that  very  moment  told  himself — how  much  he 
had  looked  forward  to  being  a  Rho. 

"Things  may  change,"  he  said  again  as 
Smith  turned  savagely  and  started  back.  He 
was  trying  to  compromise,  but  he  had  no 
idea  how  any  change  was  to  come  about.  He 
brooded  over  it  in  his  room  that  night,  and 
the  more  he  pondered  the  more  clearly  he 
realized  that  the  debt  to  his  uncle  stood  in  his 
way.  Plainly,  he  was  up  against  it.  He 
made  the  foot  of  his  iron  bedstead  jingle  with 
a  petulant  kick,  and,  muttering  the  Phi  yell  in 
a  savage  tone,  went  off  to  sleep. 

At  luncheon  the  next  day  at  the  Phi  house, 
the  Freshman  was  so  friendly  and  so  gracious 
that  two  of  the  Chapter  went  out  into  the 
kitchen  and  shaok  hands.  Had  he  not  in 
quired  solicitously  about  the  fraternity's  posi 
tion  in  Amherst,  had  he  not  expressed  great 
pleasure  at  learning  of  their  high  political 
standing  back  there?  Never  a  word  had  they 
heard  of  his  uncle,  however.  The  Freshman 
who  is  in  his  own  neighborhood  does  not 
donate  additional  arguments. 

The  Phi  house  was  shaken  to  its  founda- 


His  Uncle's  Will.  *9 

tions.  This  was  the  greatest  piece  of  work 
for  years.  Walt  was  immediately  invited  to 
stay  for  dinner  and  to  spend  the  night  and  the 
next  day,  but  although  it  was  Saturday,  he 
declined.  Even  the  tempting  bait  of  a  Popu 
list  campaign  rally  moved  him  not. 

The  days  passed  and  Walter  Olcott  Havi- 
land  was  an  unhappy  child.  His  sudden 
intimacy  with  the  Phis  could  not  escape  the 
astonished  Rhos;  he  was  sensitive  to  the 
change  in  their  manner,  slight  as  it  was.  He 
would  have  been  glad  enough  to  have  stayed 
out  of  fraternities  altogether  if  it  would  have 
helped  matters.  There  was  a  very  jolly  set 
in  the  Hall,  men  who  had  refused  far  better 
bids  than  the  Phis.  Jimmie  Mason  and  Frank 
Lyman,  "Peg"  Langdon  and  Blake,  the  full 
back;  these  fellows,  as  prominent  as  any  in 
College,  were  in  the  dormitory  crowd;  they 
used  one  another's  rooms  and  tobacco  and 
clothes  with  the  utmost  good  nature.  Walt 
had  been  fond  of  the  big  building  from  his 
first  day  there;  he  could  have  had  a  happy 
time  with  this  independent  set. 

He  was  not  made  any  happier  by  Lyman's 
saying,  "Whatever  you  do,  don't  join  the 
Phis.  They've  no  standing  here,  and  you 
won't  help  yourself  any."  Freshmen  usually 
listened  to  what  Lyman  said.  But  Haviland 
had  thought  and  reasoned  and  struggled  with 
himself,  and  had  come  to  a  conclusion.  To 


7°  Stanford  Stories. 

write  to  his  uncle,  "I  have  joined  the  Phis 
because  you  are  one,"  would  be  worth  any 
sacrifice.  Perhaps  he  could  work  to  improve 
the  crowd  a  little  after  he  was  one  of  them. 
At  least  there  was  no  reason  why  they  need 
be  his  only  friends. 

He  went  to  the  lab  one  afternoon  with  his 
decision  made.  If  the  Phis  asked  him  to 
dinner,  he  would  go  and  put  his  head  on  the 
block. 

As  he  came  along  toward  the  main  entrance 
he  saw  Andrew  Higgins,  the  longest,  lankiest 
Phi  of  them  all,  bearing  down  upon  him. 
His  heart  sank,  but  his  resolution  was  firm, 
and  he  looked  his  fate  in  the  face.  When  his 
executioner  had  almost  reached  him,  some 
body  touched  his  shoulder;  it  was  Smith. 

"Before  your  frat  brother  gets  hold  of  you," 
muttered  Cap,  drawing  Walt  aside,  "I  want 
to  speak  to  you.  The  boys  must  have  your 
final  answer  to-day." 

The  "frat  brother"  was  not  to  be  turned 
down.  He  loomed  up  steadily  in  their  direc 
tion.  Walt  was  miserable.  It  was  the  be 
ginning  of  the  end. 

"I'll  give  it  to-night,"  he  said  hurriedly,  as 
the  Phi  reached  them. 

"Will  you  come  to  dinner?" 

Haviland  wanted  one  sunbeam  before  the 
darkness. 

"Yes,  I'll  come,  Cap,"  and  turned  to  shake 


His  Uncle's  Will.  7« 

hands  with  the  Phi,  whose  invitation  was 
frozen  half-way  in  his  throat.  Now  the  Beta 
Phis  were  not  of  the  people  who  let  to-mor 
row  get  anything  while  to-day  lasts,  so  Hig- 
gins  asked  Walt  to  come  down  after  dinner 
for  the  night,  and  the  unhappy  boy,  half- 
hearing,  promised. 

It  was  a  gloomy  dinner  for  the  Freshman, 
baked  funeral  meats  and  he  the  corpse.  Mrs. 
Perkins  gave  him  a  motherly  smile  and  told 
him  in  a  careful  undertone  that  she  was  glad 
he  was  going  to  be  one  of  her  boys,  after 
which  he  felt  childishly  close  to  tears.  He 
sat  out-doors  with  the  others  and  smoked 
and  joined  weakly  in  the  singing.  The  roses 
clinging  to  the  porch  had  never  been  so 
sweet;  the  Rho  dog  had  never  nosed  so  af 
fectionately  against  his  shoulder.  There  was 
to  be  no  substitute  for  this.  He  wished  he 
had  never  seen  the  campus.  His  mood  com 
municated  itself  to  the  others  and  things  grew 
slow.  One  by  one  the  fellows  slipped  away 
with  various  excuses.  Finally  Cap  said: 

"Come  up  to  the  room,"  and  Haviland 
went  up  stairs  with  the  emotions  one  carries 
to  the  dentist. 

Smith  threw  himself  on  the  bed  and  mo 
tioned  Walt  to  a  chair  at  his  study  table. 
They  tried  a  little  general  conversation,  but 
failed  mournfully.  The  Freshman  had  a 
wretched  feeling  that  this  room  was  home  to 


72  Stanford  Stories. 

him.  He  had  slept  here  so  often  and  he 
knew  every  athletic  picture  and  trophy  around 
it.  There  had  been  something  said  about  his 
living  here  with  Cap  after  Christmas.  The 
clock  ticked  spitefully  at  him. 

Smith's  voice,  deep  and  quiet,  broke  the 
pause. 

"What's  the  good  word,  Professor?" 

Walt  swallowed  a  lump,  nervously  opened 
a  book  that  lay  on  the  table,  then  looked  at 
the  big  red  sweater  on  the  bed,  and  said: 

"I  can't  do  it,  Cap." 

Smith  kicked  a  pillow  of  which  he  thought 
a  great  deal  almost  into  the  grate,  and  said 
with  fine  scorn: 

"When  do  you  join  the  Phis?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Van,  drearily. 

"Well,  I  think  you're  nutty;  it's  the 
cheesiest  gang  in  College." 

The  battle  had  begun.  Walt  might  as  well 
practice  his  defense  at  once,  so  he  said  with  a 
little  dignity: 

"My  uncle  is  a  Phi,  and  it  is  his  wish." 

"So  that  is  it!"  Such  a  reason  was  no  dis 
credit  to  the  Rhos;  therefore  it  was  the  harder 
to  accept.  "You  give  me  a  jolt,  Walt.  Just 
because  your  uncle  is  in  a  rotten  fraternity 
you  must  crawl  into  the  heap,  too.  I'd  see 
him  hanged  first  before  I'd  queer  myself  with 
those  yaps." 

Cap  went  on  even  more  impatiently,  but  the 


His  Uncle's  Will.  73 

Freshman  heard  not  a  word.  He  was  staring 
at  the  book  open  before  him. 

"Cap,  what  book  is  this?" 

"The  fraternity  catalogue." 

"What  fraternity?" 

"Ours,  of  course;  whose  did  you  think  it 
was,  the — " 

Walt  gave  a  hysterical  whoop  and  flung 
himself  over  the  footboard  upon  the  aston 
ished  Smith.  He  rolled  him  over  the  bed 
and  sent  him  to  join  the  pillow  on  the  floor; 
then,  sitting  up  on  the  bed  with  tousled  hair 
and  shining  eyes,  he  said: 

"Cap,  if  you  still  want  me,  I  say  yes!" 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?"  asked  the 
amazed  Sophomore  from  the  rug. 

"Nothing!"  shouted  Walt.  "I  see  the  whole 
thing;  uncle's  awful  writing — mother  got  it 
Phi  instead  of  Rho — she  doesn't  know  one 
from  the  other — his  name's  in  your  book. 
Hoo!"  and  he  sprang  on  Smith  again  and 
lifted  him  bodily. 

The  Chapter  had  been  waiting.  Hearing 
propitious  sounds,  they  came  stringing  in, 
and  Haviland's  explanation,  with  the  celebra 
tion  that  followed  it,  took  such  a  length  of 
time  that  the  longest,  lankiest  Phi  fell  asleep 
in  the  parlor  and  his  lamp  burned  out  about 
two. 


THE   INITIATION    OF 
DROMIO. 


The  Initiation  of  Dromio. 


"I  know  a  prof., — not  much  to  see, — 

Take  care! 

Mistakes    are    made    here    frequently, 
Beware!" 

The  Rho  fraternity  called  Walter  Haviland 
"professor."  Haviland  was  one  of  their 
pledged  Freshmen.  In  rushing,  a  good  nick 
name,  gracefully  used,  is  a  great  thing.  It 
puts  a  Freshman  considerably  at  his  ease,  and 
impresses  him  with  the  feeling  that  he  belongs 
to  the  set. 

The  first  day  that  Haviland  came  over  to 
dinner,  Bob  Duncan,  a  Senior,  spoke  up  from 
his  end  of  the  table:  "Are  you  a  relative  of 
Lamb,  the  botany  professor?" 

"I  have  never  heard  that  I  am,"  answered 
the  Freshman. 

"Are  you  in  any  of  his  classes?" 

"No;  I'm  not  going  to  take  botany." 

"If  you  were,  I  don't  believe  the  class  could 
tell  you  apart.  Doesn't  he  look  like  Lamb  to 
beat  the  band,  fellows?" 

"He's  a  little  heavier  than  the  prof.,"  sug 
gested  Smith. 

"Oh,  perhaps  he  is  a  little,"  admitted  Dun- 
77 


78  Stanford  Stories. 

can,  "but  their  height  is  the  same  to  an  inch, 
and  the  facial  resemblance  is  great." 

"He  can't  look  much  like  a  professor," 
'aughed  the  Freshman. 

"He  doesn't,"  said  Duncan,  "they've  got 
him  down  in  the  register  as  an  associate  pro 
fessor  in  botany,  but  that's  all  he  has  to  his 
credit.  He  gets  taken  for  a  Freshman  right 
along.  New  students  ask  him  if  he  is  regis 
tered  and  what  his  major  is — sure  they  do." 

"They  say  there  was  a  big  farmer  who  went 
in  to  register  in  botany  and  wouldn't  do  busi 
ness  with  poor  Lamb  at  all,"  said  Perkins. 
"He  said  he  wasn't  so  green  as  he  looked, 
and  he  knew  all  about  these  students  who 
make  believe  they're  professors  and  give  fake 
examinations.  The  professor  was  as  red  as 
a  beet." 

"I  don't  blame  him,"  said  Duncan.  "Why, 
the  man  is  married  and  has  two  children." 

"Are  you  sure  they're  his,"  said  Pellams, 
seriously.  "I've  seen  them  with  him  on  the 
Quad,  but  I  thought  perhaps  he'd  borrowed 
them  for  effect,  to  keep  off  the  Senior  girls." 

"The  year  he  came  here  the  Beta  Phis  tried 
to  rush  him,  didn't  they?"  asked  Smith.  Dun 
can  scowled  across  the  table  at  the  Sophomore. 
This  was  Haviland's  first  day  at  the  house; 
they  could  josh  other  frats  later,  if  he  came 
their  way;  just  now  it  was  a  break. 

Ted  Perkins  interrupted  tactfully.     "Have 


The  Initiation  of  Dromio.  79 

some  of  this  Spanish  goo?  The  English  de 
partment  here  is  crazy  on  theatricals.  They 
will  probably  want  you  for  a  grand  revival  of 
the  Comedy  of  Errors." 

''If  I  were  you,"  came  in  Smith,  to  cover  up 
his  slip,  "I  would  go  over  and  draw  his  salary 
some  day.  They  would  pay  it  all  right  if  they 
didn't  look  twice  and  ask  questions." 

"Better  look  out,"  added  Pellams,  in  his 
solemn  drawl,  "those  babies  of  his  will  be 
claiming  you  in  the  Quad  in  front  of  all  Roble 
some  sunny  day,  and  then  you  might  just  as 
well  leave  college!" 

This  table-talk  gave  the  men  an  idea  for 
a  nickname,  and  so,  when  they  knew  the 
Freshman  a  little  better,  they  slipped  an  arm 
through  his  and  called  him  "Professor."  It 
was  really  the  most  civilized  nickname  in  the 
house. 

One  Thursday,  at  football  practice,  about 
two  weeks  after  Haviland  had  agreed  to  join, 
Pellams  spoke  to  him. 

"Professor,  on  Saturday  night  you  are  to  be 
initiated.  Bring  over  your  suit-case  with  a 
change  of  under-clothes  and  a  pair  of  old 
shoes." 

"I  was  going  up  to  San  Francisco  on  Sat 
urday,"  murmured  Haviland,  his  heart  beat 
ing  a  bit  faster,  "but " 

"You  have  changed  your  mind,"  finished 
Pellams,  quietly.  "We  will  have  dinner  as 


80  Stanford  Stories. 

usual,  and  you  will  be  on  time,  please.  So 
long,  Professor." 

Haviland  was  not  wholly  at  peace  as  he 
walked  back  to  the  dormitory.  A  Freshman 
never  becomes  especially  hilarious  in  antici 
pating  his  initiation  night;  there  is  an  un 
certain  certainty  about  it  that  he  cannot  en 
tirely  laugh  away,  however  much  natural 
bravery  he  may  have,  however  hoary  he  may 
be  in  high  school  fraternity  experience.  At 
the  chapter  house,  where  things  have  been 
made  so  pleasant,  careless  remarks  are 
dropped,  full  of  sinister  meaning.  It  is  not 
nearly  so  comfortable  there  now,  and  Fresh 
man  Damocles  wishes  the  suspense  were  over. 

When  the  fateful  Saturday  dawned,  Walter 
had  a  strong  impulse  to  go  to  the  city  as  he 
had  originally  planned.  Pellams  had  explained 
to  him  that  his  having  held  out  so  long  be 
fore  agreeing  to  join  would  probably  mean  his 
"getting  it  unusually  hard."  He  knew  that 
of  all  the  fraternities,  the  Rhos  were  the  most 
severe  in  their  initiations — one  of  the  Rhos 
had  told  him  so. 

At  the  post-office  that  morning  he  met  Pro 
fessor  Lamb  starting  for  a  day's  botanizing  in 
the  foothills.  He  did  not  know  the  instructor, 
but  he  envied  him  as  he  leaned  on  his  wheel 
and  watched  the  botany  man  take  the  fence 
and  start  off  across  the  brown  pastures  toward 


The  Initiation  of  Dromio.          8l 

the  hills  beyond  the  lake.  There  certainly  was 
a  strong  resemblance. 

"Oh,"  groaned  the  candidate  for  fraternity 
privileges,  "I  wish  it  was  a  case  of  his  re 
sembling  me  instead  of  my  looking  like  him. 
I  only  wish  I  was  the  prof,  now,  I'd  change 
places  quickly  enough.  I'm  afraid  I'm  a  cow 
ard." 

He  wondered  if  they  guessed  how  scared 
he  was;  he  hoped  not.  He  pedaled  around  to 
the  courts,  where  Cap.  Smith  was  waiting  to 
play  tennis,  and  he  put  on  an  infant  bravado 
which  secretly  pleased  the  Sophomore.  After 
a  few  sets  Cap.  put  his  racket  under  his  arm. 

"No  more  tennis,  Professor,"  he  said,  with 
meaning;  "you'd  better  rest  most  of  the  day. 
Get  out  your  work  for  Monday,  you  won't 
feel  much  like  studying  to-morrow,  you  know, 
and  don't  forget  to  be  at  the  house  at  six 
sharp."  Then,  since  the  Freshman  had  visibly 
wilted,  Smith  grinned  all  the  way  across  the 
field. 

Haviland  suspected  two  other  fellows  in  the 
Hall  of  being  in  a  state  of  mind  similar  to 
his  own,  but  as  he  had  been  instructed  to  keep 
the  matter  absolutely  secret,  he  could  not  turn 
to  them  for  relief.  He  worried  through  the 
long  Saturday,  making  futile  attacks  on  the 
work  prescribed  for  Monday,  strumming  in 
an  aimless  way  on  his  banjo,  and  finally  writ- 


82  Stanford  Stones. 

ing  his  mother  a  letter  between  the  lines  of 
which  she  at  once  read  malaria. 

Dinner  at  the  Rho  house  was  the  most  mis 
erable  meal  he  had  ever  choked  his  way 
through.  A  half-dozen  graduates  were  pres 
ent,  and  some  men  from  the  Berkeley  chapter. 
These  visitors  seemed  a  solemn  lot,  and  con 
versation  included  the  candidates  only  now 
and  then.  During  the  lulls  in  the  talk,  the 
Freshmen  made  audible  sounds  trying  to 
swallow  their  food;  this  was  so  embarrassing 
that  they  gave  up  the  effort  to  eat,  only  gulp 
ing  water  now  and  then  during  talk.  It  was 
a  relief  when  some  one  touched  each  Fresh 
man  quietly,  and  the  condemned  youngsters 
followed  upstairs,  their  faces  wearing  pitiful 
dumb-victim-at-the-altar  expressions,  or  try 
ing  with  ghastly  smiles  to  show  how  little  they 
cared. 

The  young  moon,  sloping  toward  the 
shaggy  rim  of  the  Palo  Alto  hills  soon  after 
eight  o'clock,  looked  down  into  the  pasture 
lands  back  of  the  campus.  There  she  saw 
Walter  Haviland,  blindfolded  and  with  a  rope 
about  his  waist.  Three  other  Freshmen  were 
in  a  similar  condition  in  different  parts  of 
the  field.  Haviland  had  been  intrusted  to  the 
tender  mercy  of  Cap.  Smith,  a  'Varsity  man, 
and  Pellams  Chase,  greatest  of  all  joshers. 
This  was  indeed  a  high  honor.  Two  of  the 
less  distinguished  members  hovered  about 


The   Initiation  of  Dromio.  83 

them,  eager  to  add  their  services.  Their  ob 
jective  point  was  a  fence  skirted  by  a  gully 
through  which  water  ran  in  the  winter  time; 
into  this  gully  they  flung  the  luckless  Walt 
and  left  him  there  while  they  took  their  ruth 
less  course  to  a  part  of  the  field  where  another 
group  of  men  had  gathered. 

The  moon  touched  delicately  the  redwood 
trees  upon  the  western  ridge,  then  slipped 
down  beyond  them.  With  her  last  look  into 
the  field  she  saw  Haviland  lying  on  his  face 
at  the  bottom  of  the  gulch.  She  saw  also 
Professor  Lamb,  of  the  botany  department, 
hurrying  home  cross-country  from  the  day's 
collecting  on  upper  San  Francisquito  Creek, 
tired,  dusty,  bedraggled,  thinking  with  an  un 
scientific  enthusiasm  of  the  hot  dinner  await 
ing  his  homecoming.  The  lingering  moon, 
peering  over  the  mountain  edge,  saw  the  in 
structor  clear  the  fence  and  plunge  into  the 
shadowy  gulch.  Then,  before  she  could  see 
what  happened  next,  the  stern  law  of  the  solar 
system  drew  her  reluctant  down. 

The  four  men  who  had  charge  of  Haviland 
came  back  from  their  consultation  with  the 
others.  When  they  were  near  the  place  where 
they  had  left  their  victim,  a  man  appeared, 
climbing  out.  This  called  for  investigation; 
they  bounded  along  through  the  gulch  and 
came  up  with  the  fellow.  To  their  surprise  it 
was  Haviland  with  his  bandage  off  and  the 


84  Stanford  Stories. 

rope  nowhere.  It  was  the  first  time  a  man 
had  ever  tried  to  give  them  the  slip.  He 
should  pay  for  it!  Cap.  Smith  threw  himself 
on  the  Freshman  at  the  first  glimpse  of  his 
face.  In  a  jiffy  there  was  a  new  bandage  over 
his  eyes  and  another  rope  coiled  around  his 
waist;  this  time  it  included  his  hands.  He 
struggled  resolutely,  but  in  silence,  for  his 
breath  had  left  him  when  he  struck  the  ground 
with  Smith  on  top. 

They  seized  him  firmly  and  ran  him  at 
breakneck  speed  over  a  terrible  course,  head 
ing  for  an  old  well  which  waters  a  back  pas 
ture.  Here  they  stopped,  spent  with  running. 

"On  your  knees,  Professor!"  gasped  Pel- 
lams,  with  as  much  authority  as  his  lack  of 
breath  would  allow. 

The  panting  victim  remained  standing. 

"Down!"  accompanied  by  a  resounding 
blow  of  a  barrel  stave. 

Still  no  movement,  but  a  gurgle  was  heard 
as  though  speech  was  being  labored  for. 

Biff! 

The  unfortunate  creature  sprawled  beside 
the  well,  but  struggled  up  again  to  a  half- 
kneeling  posture. 

"This — must — stop!"  he  gasped,  painfully. 
"It — is — an — outrage.  I — am " 

"No  levity,  sir!"  said  Smith.  "You've  got 
to  do  what  we  say,  Professor,  or  you  won't 
get  in  at  all." 


The  Initiation  of  Dromio.  8S 

"I — don't — want — to — get — in,"  panted  the 
poor  wretch  in  desperate  protest.  "It's — a — 
mistake 1 " 

"See  here,  Professor;  where's  your  nerve? 
Be  a  man!  You'll  never  make  a  Rho  at  this 
rate.  Brace  up,  for  Heaven's  sake!  Rise, 
Neophyte." 

They  gave  the  rope  a  cruel  wrench,  which 
brought  their  captive  to  his  feet. 

"Let's  kill  him,"  whispered  one  of  the  men. 
Never  before  had  there  been  so  shameful  a 
display  of  the  white  feather. 

"We'll  duck  him." 

They  brought  their  Freshman  to  the  brink 
of  the  well.  They  tightened  the  rope  under 
his  arms,  and,  before  he  could  divine  their 
intentions,  they  were  lowering  him  down  the 
slippery  side.  When  his  feet  struck  the  cold 
water  he  struggled  violently,  shouting  some 
thing  which  his  splashing  and  the  echo  of  the 
well  made  unintelligible.  Presently  they 
hoisted  him,  dripping  and  speechless  with 
rage. 

"Thou  hast  now  been  cleansed  of  thy  sin 
and  cowardice,  O  Neophyte,"  declaimed  Pel- 
lams.  "Forward  to  the  joys  that  await  thee!" 

They  dragged  him  home  on  the  run,  taking 
the  road  this  time  and  making  all  haste  to 
the  house.  The  half-dead  initiate  had  to  be 
carried  upstairs.  Smith  took  off  the  rope  and 
told  him  to  strip  for  a  bath.  The  victim  sat 


86  Stanford  Stories. 

on  the  edge  of  the  Sophomore's  bed  and  shook 
his  head  feebly.  He  was  evidently  exhausted. 

"Come,  hurry  up,  Haviland,"  said  Cap.  He 
felt  a  brutal  impatience  to  see  what  the  barrel 
staves  had  done  to  the  fellow's  back.  "Get 
bathed  and  put  on  your  dry  clothes  and  be 
ready  for  the  feed." 

The  initiate  raised  his  hands  slowly  and  un 
tied  the  bandage.  He  blinked  a  moment  at 
Smith,  then  he  said  huskily,  "I  am  not  Havi 
land,  Mr.  Smith,  nor  do  I  want  any  'feed.'  I 
want  to  know  what  this  means."  There  was 
no  anger  in  his  voice,  only  great  weariness. 

The  freezing  truth  dawned  on  the  horrified 
student.  His  first  impulse  was  to  rush  out 
of  the  house  and  to  keep  running.  He  man 
aged  to  stammer: 

"Where's  Haviland?" 

"I  don't  know  where  Haviland  is,"  muttered 
the  tired  instructor.  "I  don't  know  who  Havi 
land  is.  If  I  have  taken  his  place  I  am  ready 
to  change  again."  He  looked  down  upon  his 
clothes,  stuccoed  with  tarweed  burrs  and  wet 
mud. 

Then  Jack  Smith  laughed  aloud. 

"Professor,  when  we've  found  Haviland, 
and  you've  seen  him,  you'll  understand  the 
whole  horrible  mistake,  and " 

"There  was  no  mistake,"  said  the  other, 
coldly,  "you  called  me  Professor  while  you 
were  beating  me." 


The  Initiation  of  Dromio.  87 

This  only  set  Smith  off  again. 

"That's  our  name  for  Haviland.  You  see 
he  looks  like  you — oh,  I  can't  explain  it  to 
you,  Professor;  but  when  you've  seen  the  man 
you'll  forgive  us,  I  know  you  will.  And  you've 
simply  got  to  stay  to  our  feed  now,  if  we  have 
to  tie  you  up  again  to  keep  you  here." 

Professor  Lamb,  of  the  botany  department, 
smiled  wanly. 

"I  think  I  will  take  a  bath,  anyway,"  he 
sighed. 


THE    SUBSTITUTED 
FULLBACK. 


The  Substituted  Fullback, 


"Shadows,  you  say,  mirages  of  the  brain  1 

I  know  not,  faith,  not  1 ; 

Is  it  more  strange  the  dead  should  walk  again 
Than   that   the   quick   should   die?" 

ALDBICH. 


"  Frank  Lyman,  Football  Manager,  Stanford  Univer 
sity : 

"  Blake  died  three  forty-five.  Body  going  East.  I 
return  five  train.  DIEMANN." 

When  he  had  sent  this  message  to  the  Uni 
versity,  the  instructor  in  Psychology  went 
gloomily  down  to  the  Third  and  Townsend 
Street  station. 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  done  just 
then.  He  had  telegraphed  to  the  dead  ath 
lete's  parents;  the  undertakers  had  their  in 
structions  about  shipping  the  body  to  Ohio, 
and  the  hospital  bills  would  be  arranged  for 
later.  He  slipped  into  a  single  seat  at  the 
back  of  the  car  to  avoid  the  chance  of  a  trav 
elling  acquaintance.  Now  that  the  business 
part  of  it  was  over,  he  could  not  talk  to  any 
one. 

The  whole  thing  had  been  so  sudden  that  it 
was  hard  to  feel  the  truth.  Barely  a  week  ago 


92  Stanford  Stories. 

he  had  stood  on  the  practice  field  at  the  Uni 
versity,  following  Blake's  splendid  play  and 
listening  to  the  shouting  of  the  crowded 
bleachers,  who  idolized  their  great  fullback 
with  the  absolute  idolatry  of  a  college  crowd. 
It  was  not  easy  to  believe  that  all  this  phys 
ical  manhood,  all  this  intellectual  promise, 
had  been  snuffed  out  like  a  candle  before 
their  very  eyes. 

Diemann  pressed  his  face  against  the  car 
window  and  stared  out  at  the  terraced  pro 
duce  gardens  slipping  dimly  by  in  the  early 
November  dusk.  Between  him  and  the  dead 
fullback  there  had  been  such  companionship 
as  comes  now  and  then  to  an  instructor  un 
der  thirty  and  a  man  nearing  the  end  of  his 
college  course.  When  Diemann,  just  home 
from  Germany,  came  West  to  teach  Psychol 
ogy,  he  found  young  Blake  the  college  hero. 
The  new  instructor  had  himself  been  a  noted 
back;  he  still  hovered  somewhere  between 
enthusiast  and  fiend.  At  Stanford  he  at  once 
identified  himself  with  the  football  men,  and 
they  welcomed  him  gladly  as  assistant  coach. 
During  that  first  season,  two  years  ago,  he 
had  come  to  know  and  like  Fred  Blake. 
Later,  the  fullback  took  Diemann's  course  in 
Psychology,  and  to  the  elder  man's  gratifica 
tion,  developed  a  passion  for  the  subject. 
The  instructor  recognized  the  quality  of  the 
athlete's  mind,  and  before  long  the  two  were 


The  Substituted  Fullback.          93 

working  together,  reading  and  discussing 
along  the  line  of  the  teacher's  special  interest. 

Coming  home  from  the  sober  materialism 
of  Leipzig,  Diemann  had  realized  more  fully 
than  ever  how  thoroughly  the  interest  in  mat 
ters  occult  had  pervaded  the  mind  of  his 
native  country.  To  this  department  of  Psy 
chology  he  turned  with  an  admitted  interest 
in  things  unseen  and  a  confidence  in  the  re 
straint  of  his  University  training.  He  felt 
that  he  stood  barely  upon  the  threshold  of 
the  subject,  held  back  by  material  prejudice 
and  the  conservatism  of  little  faith;  yet  his 
enthusiasm  grew  daily.  He  weighed  the  evi 
dence  of  phenomena  with  an  impartiality  that 
other  people  pronounced  belief.  The  atti 
tude  of  those  about  him  was  for  the  most  part 
unsympathetic.  Some  to  whom  he  had 
made  furtive  confidences  called  him 
"spooky,"  a  spiritualist;  but  he  was  mere 
ly  an  investigator,  trying  to  be  fair.  It  was 
an  alluring  study;  perhaps  he  ran  the  risk  of 
over-enthusiasm — he  had  known  people  who 
had  spiritualized  the  palpably  material — but 
he  was  guarding  against  this  danger;  it 
would  take  an  exceptional  impulse  ever  to  get 
him  to  that  point. 

It  might  be  that  some  such  temptation  was 
coming  to  him  now.  He  had  just  seen  his 
friend  pass  into  perfect  knowledge.  Blake 
had  said  something  to  him  at  the  last  that 


94  Stanford  Stories. 

still  ran  in  his  ears,  above  the  rumble  of  the 
train.  "I  will  come  back,  if  there  is  anything 
in  it  all." 

Diemann,  peering  out  into  the  deepening 
gloom  toward  the  bay  shore  faintly  white  in 
the  luminous  mist,  thought  over  this  last  in 
terview  of  theirs;  he  was  finding  it  hard  to 
realize  that  their  friendship  had  ended. 

Only  eight  days  before,  he  remembered, 
Blake  first  complained.  It  was  at  the  prac 
tice,  and  Diemann  had  given  him  a  shot 
about  his  listless  work.  Fred  had  answered: 

"I  can't  help  it,  Die;  I  feel  dead,  somehow. 
I'm  afraid  I'm  going  stale,  after  all." 

He  recalled  the  drawn  look  on  Fred's  face. 
But  the  boy  would  come  out  the  next  night, 
for  there  was  only  a  week  before  the  team 
would  leave  for  the  Springs,  and  so  much  had 
to  be  done  that  the  captain  simply  couldn't 
lay  off.  Toward  the  end  of  the  practice,  he 
collapsed.  With  his  arm  over  Lyman's  shoul 
der  he  had  gone  back  to  the  Hall,  dragging 
his  feet  heavily,  while  the  crowd  sat  on  the 
bleachers,  quiet  and  frightened.  Then  the 
pain  came,  tearing  its  way  into  the  heroic 
body,  and  the  specialist  hurriedly  summoned 
from  San  Francisco  had  said  that  they  must 
get  him  to  the  hospital. 

Now  it  was  all  over,  and  Diemann  was  fol 
lowing  his  melancholy  telegram  to  college. 
He  could  guess  the  effect  of  the  news.  A 


The  Substituted   Fullback.  95 

week  ago  the  knowledge  of  Blake's  illness 
had  staggered  them;  the  college  had  grown 
sick  at  heart;  the  city  papers  published  de 
tails,  and  the  hopes  of  Berkeley  bounded  to 
certainty  of  victory,  for  there  was  only  one 
Blake.  Without  him  the  Stanford  team  was 
nothing  exceptional,  and  common  estimate 
gave  the  chance  to  California.  The  Stan 
ford  management  did  the  only  thing  they 
could  do  by  putting  in  Ashley,  the  scrub  full 
back  ;  but  this  did  not  help  matters  materially. 
Ashley  was  a  man  of  beautiful  physique, 
and  the  most  conscientious  player  on  the 
field.  There  he  stopped.  He  utterly  lacked 
the  head-work  that  Blake  put  into  the  game. 

For  the  star  fullback  had  possessed  the  foot 
ball  instinct.  Beyond  his  quickness  and  dash, 
he  had  the  mysterious  faculty  of  staying 
with  the  ball.  If  he  were  breaking  the  line, 
he  placed  the  hole  the  fraction  of  an  instant 
before  anyone  else  perceived  it.  They  used 
to  put  him  at  quarterback  in  defensive  work, 
and  he  knew  by  inspiration  where  the  play 
was  going,  so  that  the  line  felt  confident  with 
him  at  their  backs. 

Tom  Ashley  had  nothing  of  all  this.  He 
punted  as  well  as  the  'Varsity  man,  generally 
better,  at  the  beginning  of  the  season;  but 
was  slow  with  his  kick,  often  fatally  slow 
when  the  'Varsity  broke  through  the  scrub 
line.  He  was  late  in  starting,  too,  though  a 


96  Stanford  Stories. 

strong  runner  when  out  in  the  field.  The 
chief  beauty  of  his  game  was  a  quick  and  cer 
tain  straight-arm.  At  another  time  he  might 
have  easily  been  the  'Varsity  fullback,  for  he 
put  up  a  hard,  steady  game  from  one  end  of 
the  season  to  the  other;  but  he  had  come  to 
college  with  Blake,  and  the  position  had  been 
out  of  the  question.  Besides,  there  were  a 
couple  of  star  halves;  he  was  not  good  at  end, 
either.  So  he  staid  on  the  Scrub  eleven,  and 
worked  doggedly  for  three  years. 

Diemann  lay  back  in  the  car  seat  and  aim 
lessly  thought  of  his  work  with  the  substitute 
the  week  of  Fred's  illness.  He  had  done  his 
best  with  Ashley,  trying  to  instill  into  him 
something  of  the  other's  style  and  dash.  He 
had  talked  with  him  long  and  carefully,  show 
ing  him  the  subtle  points  of  Blake's  game. 
During  the  few  practices  following  the  star's 
departure  he  had  watched  the  new  man  faith 
fully  through  every  play,  giving  him  all  his 
time.  He  was  sorry  for  the  sub.  A  man 
could  be  placed  in  no  more  exacting  position. 

Ordinarily,  such  a  chance  would  have  been 
a  god-send  to  a  scrub  player,  for  the  second- 
eleven  man  is  the  type  of  the  Great  Un- 
thanked.  Diemann  thought  of  the  three 
months  through  which  the  scrub  trains  re 
ligiously,  sacrificing  beloved  pipe,  or  sorority 
dance,  or  week's  end  trip  to  Mayfield,  or  to 
the  Orpheum  in  town;  leaving  the  "gang" 


The  Substituted  Fullback.  97 

singing  in  the  moonlit  Quad,  while  he  turns 
in  at  ten  according  to  pledge;  faring  day 
after  day  on  the  same  service  of  rare  beef  and 
oatmeal  water;  getting  pounded  and  battered 
about  over  a  hard  field  every  afternoon. 
Ashley  had  had  three  years  of  this  sort  of 
thing — and  all  for  what?  At  best,  to  squat 
in  football  clothes  on  the  side-lines,  Thanks 
giving  day,  with  Blake's  or  Smith's  sweater 
around  his  neck,  waiting  for  the  accident  that 
may  give  the  game  to  Berkeley  at  the  same 
time  that  it  lets  him  trot  out  on  the  field,  while 
the  crowd  calls  out  to  him  encouragingly, 
although  they  are  sick  at  heart.  He  goes 
through  each  season  borne  up  by  the  excite 
ment,  working  breast  to  breast  with  the  hon 
ored  'Varsity,  but  lost  in  their  mighty  shad 
ow.  When  the  big  day  comes  he  slips 
back  into  the  great,  wild  crowd  that  lifts  the 
team  to  its  shoulders;  worship  is  not  for  him, 
no,  nor  remembrance  either,  in  that  hour  of 
homage.  Such  men,  to  the  bleachers,  are 
but  working  material  for  the  'Varsity;  the 
scrub  player  is  part  of  an  inorganic  thing — 
until  his  chance  comes. 

Yet,  when  fortune  gave  Ashley  his  chance 
he  was  not  to  be  envied.  To  be  put  sud 
denly,  at  the  last  moment  almost,  into  the 
shoes  of  the  college  hero,  when  the  hopes  of 
the  University  had  been  centered  in  that  one 
man,  this  was  too  much  for  any  fellow.  In 


9s  Stanford  Stories. 

his  docile  way  the  substitute  went  into  the 
trying  place,  working  along  as  faithfully,  and 
to  all  appearance  with  as  little  concern,  as  in 
his  old  position.  Secretly,  the  responsibility 
wore  upon  him.  It  was  a  hopeless  undertak 
ing  to  be  like  Blake;  but  everybody  expected 
it  of  him.  He  tried  his  best  to  grasp  the  pa 
tient  coaching  of  Diemann  and  to  put  it  in 
play  at  the  right  time,  but  he  never  seemed 
quick  enough;  that  cursed  slowness  of  his 
came  in  to  show  how  futile  it  all  was.  Every 
thing  he  did  or  could  do  as  a  football  man 
was  made  negative  by  the  fact  that  he  was  in 
Blake's  place.  It  was  a  hard  graft. 

Diemann  had  known  all  along  what  the  fel 
low  was  suffering,  and  he  pitied  him.  Accord 
ing  to  Ashley's  room-mate,  the  boy  ta'ked  in 
his  sleep,  all  night  sometimes,  chiefly  about 
Blake  and  the  play.  If  they  did  not  look 
sharp,  the  coach -said  to  himself,  there  might 
be  another  stale  man  on  their  hands. 

Diemann  had  been  thinking  of  this  that 
very  morning  when  he  got  the  doctor's  tele 
gram.  The  shock  had  driven  out  every 
thought  of  Ashley  and  the  team.  All  through 
his  work  with  the  sub  it  had  not  occurred 
to  him  that  anything  fatal  could  come  to 
Blake,  he  had  been  doing  so  well;  then,  with 
out  warning,  came  the  message  saying  that 
he  was  sinking.  He  had  got  there  just  in 
time.  Now  it  was  all  over  and  he  was  going 


The  Substituted  Fullback.          99 

back  to  college,  where  Fred  would  never 
hear  them  shout  for  him  again,  never  feel  an 
arm  about  him  in  the  long  walks  over  the 
hills. 

When  the  train  drew  into  Palo  Alto,  Frank 
Lyman,  the  football  manager,  quiet  and  so 
ber-faced,  stood  under  the  station-light. 

"Can  you  come  to  dinner  with  me?"  asked 
Diemann. 

The  two  rode  along  under  the  oaks  to  the 
instructor's  Palo  Alto  boarding-house.  When 
they  were  alone  upstairs,  the  manager  said: 

"Will  you  tell  me  about  it?  You  got  up 
there  all  right?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  other,  slowly;  "not  any  too 
soon.  The  boy  was  conscious  at  the  last,  and 
knew  me  and  talked  a  bit.  It  was  all  football, 
pretty  much.  I  don't  think  he  was  quite  clear 
enough  to  talk  about  other  things." 

"What  did  he  say — that  is,  anything  spe 
cial?" 

"No;  he  said  he  was  more  than  sorry  that  he 
wasn't  going  to  get  in  the  game;  it  was  his 
last  and  he  wanted  to  play,  but,  of  course,  it 
wasn't  his  fault,  and  the  college  wouldn't 
think  he  had  thrown  them  down.  He'd  never 
been  a  quitter,  he  said." 

"No,  never,"  said  the  manager. 

"He  went  on  in  that  strain  a  good  deal; 
said  that  he  wished  that  he  could  have  stayed 
longer,  just  to  play  for  them  again.  At  the 


100  Stanford  Stories. 

end  he  pressed  my  hand  and  said:  'I'll  come 
back  somehow,  Die,  if  there  is  anything  in 
it.'  " 

The  Psychology  instructor  had  spoken  half 
in  revery.  He  added  quickly:  "He  was  pret 
ty  well  gone  then,  poor  old  chap,  and  wander 
ing  a  little,  and  soon  after  that,  why,  he  went 
over  the  line." 

He  was  sorry  for  having  let  that  sentence 
slip  out.  The  student  would  not  understand 
it;  he  could  not  know  what  those  last  words  of 
Blake's  had  meant  to  him,  who  saw  their 
meaning.  Lyman  would  only  think  it  a  bit 
of  ghastly  humor  that  need  not  have  been  re 
peated.  But  the  manager  did  not  take  it  so, 
evidently. 

"That  reminds  me  of  something,  Die- 
mann,"  he  said.  "I  haven't  talked  it  over 
with  anyone  yet,  because  everybody  is  sour- 
balled  enough  as  it  is.  It's  about  Ashley. 
I'm  afraid  he  is  going  stale." 

"Yes?"  said  Diemann,  with  dull  interest, 
"I've  rather  been  afraid  of  it." 

"Of  course,  I  knew  he  was  up  on  his  toes 
about  his  job,  but  I  didn't  know  just  how  bad 
it  was  until  this  afternoon.  You  see,  you 
weren't  here,  and  after  practice  there  were 
things  to  speak  about,  so  I  walked  over  to 
the  Hall  with  him.  Then  I  thought  I'd  rub 
him  myself,  because  Billy  is  overworked,  you 
know.  He  didn't  answer  questions  for  a 


The  Substituted  Fullback.         »oi 

time,  but  lay  quite  still  and  looked  at  me,  yet 
I  don't  think  he  saw  me  at  all.  He  began  to 
talk  away,  speaking  of  himself,  in  the  third 
person,  mind  you,  and  about  his  poor  play 
and  all  that.  He  was  as  clean  nutty  as  any 
man  you  ever  saw;  as  near  as  I  could  make 
out  he  thought  he  was  Fred." 

Diemann  faced  the  manager. 

"What  time  was  this,  Frank?" 

"About  five,  I  think.  Shortly  afterward  I 
got  your  telegram.  He  went  on  giving  the 
straightest  kind  of  football  talk;  but  he 
was  no  more  himself  all  the  time  than  I  am 
he.  This  went  on  for  several  minutes;  then 
he  got  clear  again.  Pretty  soon  he  rose  and 
said  he  was  faint,  but  guessed  he  was  all 
right.  I  didn't  know  whether  to  speak  to  the 
doctor  or  not.  Now,  that  sort  of  thing  won't 
do;  the  man  can't  have  such  attacks  and  keep 
in  shape.  If  he  goes  stale,  where  will  we  be?" 

"He  talked  like  Blake,  did  he?" 

"Yes,  really  he  did.  He  had  even  Fred's 
little  way  of  sliding  over  his  r's.  Being  trou 
bled  about  having  Fred's  place  has  unstrung 
him.  You've  noticed  his  absent-mindedness 
out  on  the  field?  I  know  Ashley  pretty  well; 
he's  always  been  sensitive  as  to  what  people 
think  about  him;  he  likes  to  feel  that  he's  do 
ing  what  you  expect  of  him.  He  was  struck 
on  the  head  to-day;  I  don't  doubt  that's  what 


102  Stanford  Stories. 

made  him  a  little  off.  Still,  his  nervous  con 
dition  must  be  bad." 

Diemann  rose  and  knocked  the  ashes  out 
of  his  pipe. 

"Yes,"  said  he,  thoughtfully,  "we  must 
watch  him.  Perhaps  we  ought  to  speak  to 
Dr.  Forest;  but  I'll  look  after  him  a  while 
first." 

"Very  well.  We  won't  have  any  practice 
to-morrow,  out  of  respect  to  Fred;  we 
couldn't  stand  it,  any  of  us;  that  will  give 
Ashley  a  rest,  then  Friday  we  have  the  last 
practice  before  going  to  the  Springs." 

"I  am  going  up  there  with  you.  I  think 
I'll  turn  in  early  to-night;  I'm  pretty  well 
knocked.  I'll  see  you  in  the  Quad  before 
noon  to-morrow." 

Lyman  went,  and  the  Psychology  man,  re 
filling  his  pipe,  stared  at  the  fire  and  smoked 
until  midnight. 

"I  don't  know,"  he  thought,  as  he  settled 
into  bed,  "it  may  be  only  a  case  of  dual  per 
sonality,  it  may  be  something  greater.  I've 
got  where  I  must  guard  against  myself." 

With  an  intensified  interest,  the  coach  re 
sumed  his  work  over  Ashley.  He  waited  for 
a  recurrence  of  the  phenomenon  which  Ly 
man  had  marked  and  he  yielded  again  to  the 
general  excitement  over  the  approaching 
contest.  Absorbed  in  the  two  unrelated  in- 


The  Substituted  Fullback.          I03 

terests,  he  gradually  came  to  connect  them. 
This  he  kept  to  himself. 

The  last  campus  practice  was  half  over,  the 
bleachers  were  crowded.  Across  the  field 
the  confirmed  fiends  were  standing  along  the 
ropes  to  get  a  nearer  view  of  that  tangle  of 
human  bodies,  not  a  movement  of  which  es 
caped  them.  On  the  side-lines  the  privileged 
advisers,  from  rubbers  and  Freshman  man 
ager  up  to  associate  coach,  squatted  on  the 
adobe,  careless  of  their  clothes. 

The  whole  University  had  come  out.  An 
air  of  sorrow  hung  over  everything,  the  root 
ers  were  silent,  and  the  teams  played  list 
lessly. 

Frank  Lyman  went  over  where  the  wildest 
howlers  usually  sat. 

"Boys,"  he  said,  "we  can't  send  the  men 
away  like  this,  it  would  take  them  a  week  to 
get  over  it.  We  must  have  some  yelling. 
We're  not  honoring  the  memory  of  Blake  this 
way.  Do  you  know  what  his  last  words  were? 
He  said  to  Professor  Diemann,  'They  know  I 
never  was  a  quitter.'  Do  you  think  he  would 
like  a  practice  like  this?" 

Then  the  crowd  started  up  and  gave  the 
yell  as  one  man,  and  the  others  joined  in  until 
something  like  the  usual  demonstration  arose 
about  the  field,  and  the  'Varsity,  feeling  the 
inspiration,  bent  down  and  hammered  away 
at  the  Scrubs  as  they  meant  to  do  against  the 


I04  Stanford  Stories. 

Blue  and  Gold  on  Thanksgiving  day.  Here 
and  there  a  fraternity  dog,  showing  his  head 
between  a  pair  of  golf-clad  knees,  joined  the 
quick,  sharp  yell  of  the  people  about  him  with 
an  imitation  that  raised  a  laugh.  When  the 
bleachers  were  still  just  before  a  big  play,  one 
could  hear  in  the  breathless  silence  the  slap 
of  the  canvas  suits,  the  thud  of  heavy  shoes, 
the  sniffling  of  men  just  out  of  a  scrimmage. 
Far  across  the  bay,  the  hills  that  were  cool 
and  blue  when  practice  began,  grew  lumin 
ously  red  in  the  level  light  of  the  dying  rays; 
against  the  fading  color  of  the  west,  the 
power-house  chimney  rose  picturesquely 
dark;  the  swift,  elusive  twilight  of  California 
settled  down  on  Santa  Clara's  broad  acres,  so 
that  Diemann  had  to  stare  hard  to  follow 
Ashley's  play.  Then  the  whistle  sounded, 
sharp  in  the  still  air,  and  the  teams  came  trot 
ting  to  the  side-lines  to  take  their  sweaters 
and  caps  from  devoted  admirers  and  to  stroll 
off,  arm  over  shoulder,  with  people  who 
minded  not  in  the  least  the  campus  dirt  those 
heroes  had  been  gathering. 

Diemann  took  Ashley's  arm.  "Let's  walk 
together,"  he  said. 

The  substitute  fullback  had  been  playing 
hard  ball.  The  gloom  hanging  over  the  first 
half  of  the  practice  had  affected  him  strongly 
and  he  had  flung  himself  into  the  game,  try 
ing  to  forget,  to  cast  off  the  foolish  sense  of 


The  Substituted  Fullback.          I05 

an  implied  reproach.  Diemann  could  see  that 
he  was  very  tired.  He  made  him  lean  upon 
him,  and  they  started  for  the  Hall.  Suddenly 
he  realized  that  the  football  man  was  not 
answering  questions,  that  the  weight  on  his 
own  shoulder  was  growing  heavier.  He 
glanced  up  into  Ashley's  face;  there  was  an 
absent  look  in  the  man's  eyes. 

"Fred!"  whispered  Diemann  sharply  in  his 
ear. 

"Yes?"  answered  the  fullback;  then  he 
shook  himself  and  said: 

"It's  chilly,  Die,  I'm  wet.     Let's  get  in." 

Some  fifteen  minutes  later,  the  two  came 
down  the  corridor  toward  the  training  table. 

"Good-night,  Ashley." 

"Won't  you  stay  to  dinner,  Diemann?" 

"No,  I  must  go  down,  and  you  are  late  as 
it  is.  Hurry  along  in." 

"All  right.  I'm  not  going  stale  if  I  can 
help  it.  I  just  felt  a  little  faint  over  there;  I 
got  pretty  tired." 

Diemann  stepped  up  closer  to  him  beside 
the  curving  balustrade  and  looked  the  foot 
ball  man  steadily  in  the  eyes. 

"You  are  playing  more  like  Blake  every 
day,"  he  said. 

"I  wish  I  were." 

"We  are  going  to  the  Springs  to-morrow," 
went  on  the  coach,  "and  you  car.  rest.  By 
the  way,  if  I  were  you  I  wouldn't  say  anything 


io6  Stanford  Stones. 

about  your  feeling  faint  just  now.  It  would 
only  trouble  Lyman  and  the  rest  of  the  boys." 

"What  does  it  all  mean?"  Diemann  mused 
as  the  palms  bordering  the  bicycle  path 
flashed  by  him.  "There  was  something  about 
him  like  Fred,  in  his  way  of  speaking,  and 
some  of  the  things  he  said  about  the  game, 
but  it  stopped  there.  With  all  my  question 
ing,  I  never  got  a  word  that  belonged  to  us 
two  alone.  I  suppose  I  must  admit  that  it  is 
merely  the  memory  of  the  subjective  mind,  a 
case  of  dual  personality  brought  on  by  hyper- 
aesthetic  conditions.  Oh,  if  it  were  only  the 
other  thing,  if  I  only  could  know!  But  it 
can't  be;  he  would  give  me  some  clue,  some 
sign.  Then  again  the  substitution  has  not 
come  at  a  critical  time,  only  after  the  practice, 
when  Ashley  is  tired.  If  it  were  Fred,  he 
would  appear  in  the  play,  he  would  come  at  a 
time  like  that,  if  there  is  anything  in  it." 

Diemann  gripped  his  handle-bar  tightly  as 
he  shot  through  the  sandstone  gates. 

"Oh,"  he  thought,  "whatever  it  is,  if  it 
would  only  come  stronger,  if  I  could  only  be 
sure!" 

On  Thanksgiving  morning  when  the  long 
special  runs  up  on  the  University  track  and 
stops  betwen  the  Library  and  Encina,  the 
flaming  bunting  looped  along  its  sides  starts 
the  excitement  of  the  day.  Everybody  is  out 


The  Substituted   Fullback.          I07 

on  the  walk,  bristling  with  the  College  cardi 
nal,  from  Professor  Grind  and  his  wife  to 
the  Jap  who  cleans  house  Saturdays.  If  there 
is  anyone  who  cannot  or  does  not  want  to 
go  up  to  town  to-day,  he  has  hidden  himselt 
in  grief  or  shame.  The  President  wears  a 
ribbon  in  his  coat,  and  talks  gravely  with 
Professor  Diemann,  who  has  been  at  the 
Springs  with  the  team.  A  knot  of  students 
have  already  determined  to  get  the  Doctor  to 
lead  the  yell  when  he  comes  in  to  the  grounds. 
They  know  he  will  do  it;  he  is  as  full  of  the 
spirit  of  the  day  as  any  of  them. 

"Rah,  Rah,  Rah, 
Rah,  Rah,  Rah, 
Rah,  Rah, 
Stanford!" 

The  engine  whistles  it,  the  crowd  shouts  it, 
and  the  hills  give  it  back  again  as  the  laden 
train  slips  down  to  the  main  line  and  starts 
on  its  way  to  town.  Streaming  with  cardinal 
bunting,  it  looks  like  a  burning  thing  as  it 
rushes  over  the  marsh  land,  sending  the 
horses  in  the  field  snorting  away,  and  bring 
ing  women  to  the  doors  of  cottages  along  the 
tracks.  In  their  excitement  the  delirious 
Sophomores  and  Juniors  hang  out  of  the 
windows  and  throw  kisses  wildly  to  these 
women,  who  grin  and  wave  back,  doubtless 


108  Stanford  Stories. 

saying  something  about  "them  crazy  stud 
ents."  A  placid  red  cow  is  greeted  with 
cheers,  the  scarlet  under-flannels  of  hard 
working  South  San  Francisco,  flapping  mer 
rily  from  the  line  in  the  November  breeze,  fan 
the  frenzy,  while  the  engine  toots  the  yell 
and  the  car-windows  are  aflame  with  gleam 
ing  flags. 

From  now  on  the  students  besiege  the  city, 
and  the  town  is  theirs  as  surely  as  if  the 
Mayor  had  met  them  at  its  entrance  with  a 
symbolic  golden  key.  Shop  windows  are  bril 
liant  with  the  rival  colors,  the  streets  are  a 
shifting  riot  of  red  and  blue  and  yellow,  with  a 
plague-spot  here  and  there  where  some  fanat 
ics  have  striped  their  derby  hats  with  blue  and 
gold  ribbon,  or  a  color-blind  Stanford  man 
flaunts  a  villainously  purple  chrysanthemum. 
On  the  curbing,  fakirs  are  selling  shining  red 
Christmas  berries  and  violets  and  great  burst 
ing  carnations,  and  chrysanthemums  like 
yellow  ostrich-plumes. 

Through  all  this  splendor  you  keep  close 
to  Professor  Diemann,  for  you  know  he  is 
going  to  the  hotel  where  the  team  is,  and  that 
stalwart  lineman  you  are  thinking  of  most 
to-day  is  up  there  with  them.  You  slip  up 
stairs  under  the  protecting  shadow  of  the  as 
sociate  coach,  passing  the  suspicious  eyes  of 
the  trainers  and  the  hurried,  unsympathetic 
glance  of  Lyman,  the  manager,  and  you  find 


The  Substituted  Fullback.         I09 

your  particular  hero  lying  on  his  bed  in  all 
the  glory  of  his  new  sweater  with  its  clean 
white  S,  a  great  fresh  specimen  of  the  lustiest 
student-body  in  the  world.  You  take  his  hand, 
almost  afraid  to  squeeze  it  tightly,  lest  you 
cause  some  harm  to  the  big  frame  in  which 
your  hopes  are  centered,  and  you  tell  him  how 
glad  you  are  he  has  made  the  team  and  that 
we  are  bound  to  win.  And  if  this  is  his  first 
game,  or  if  some  man  has  pressed  him  dan 
gerously  for  the  position  he  had  last  year,  he 
will  smile  and  say,  "We'll  do  our  best."  Then 
the  rubber  comes  in  and  you  slip  away,  won 
dering  why  the  beneficence  of  the  Creator  to 
man  on  earth  should  have  made  one  fellow 
like  your  idol  up  there  on  the  bed  and  another 
like  you,  crawling  unnoticed  into  the  street, 
throwing  out  your  thin,  incapable  legs  in  a 
quick  walk  to  join  your  crowd  at  the  restau 
rant. 

Diemann  found  Ashley  quiet  in  his  room. 
The  fullback  was  in  splendid  fettle;  the  week 
at  the  Springs  had  done  him  a  world  of  good. 
There  was  no  staleness  about  him  now.  It 
had  helped  him  to  be  away  from  the  College, 
away  from  that  excited  crowd  that  sat  on  the 
bleachers  and  watched  him  play,  demanding 
that  he  be  like  Blake,  who  had  died.  He 
breathed  more  easily  in  the  quiet  air  of  the 
mountains  where  the  team  had  secret  prac 
tice.  People  stopped  urging  him  to  be  like 


IIOr  Stanford  Stories. 

Blake;  only  Diemann  went  over  the  thing 
again  and  again,  explaining,  reminding.  Now 
Thanksgiving  had  come,  and  the  substitute 
fullback  had  never  felt  better  in  his  life.  He 
would  do  his  best,  and  they  could  not  say  he 
had  not  tried. 

The  manager  was  radiant  over  Ashley's 
condition,  and  the  other  men  slapped  Tom's 
big  shoulders  and  said  that  he  would  put  up  a 
good  game  for  the  College.  Diemann  alone 
seemed  sour-balled.  The  rest  of  them  knew 
how  Blake's  death  had  broken  him  up,  but 
that  was  no  reason,  Lyman  said,  why  he  need 
keep  nagging  the  new  fullback  about  Fred. 
The  College  realized  that  the  two  men  were 
hopelessly  different,  and  they  were  fairly 
reconciled  by  this  time.  If  the  boy  played 
the  best  that  was  in  him,  the  team  might  make 
it  in  spite  of  the  odds.  It  was  too  bad  to  take 
the  spirit  out  of  him  by  constantly  suggesting 
that  he  play  like  Blake.  The  manager  said 
this  to  Diemann,  but  the  coach  only  shook 
his  head  and  answered: 

"It  won't  do  any  harm,  Frank,  and  it  may 
possibly  work  him  up  to  something  like  Fred's 
game." 

But  a  week's  watching  at  the  Springs  had 
made  Diemann  despondent.  The  phenome 
non  he  had  witnessed  the  evening  of  the  last 
practice  had  not  appeared  again.  He  had  al 
lowed  his  theories  to  lead  him  away  into  im- 


The  Substituted  Fullback.          "r 

possible  hopes.  The  man  on  the  bed  was 
Ashley,  slow,  normal,  in  perfect  condition, 
hopeless,  and  Ashley  he  would  remain.  The 
chance  for  a  psychic  manifestation  ceased 
when  Ashley's  football  worry  was  over.  Op 
portunity  had  come  and  gone,  unfruitfully. 

That  afternoon,  the  athletic  grounds  were 
banked  with  great  flower-beds  of  people, 
where  red  and  blue  and  yellow  blossomed  and 
faded  and  burst  out  again  as  the  teams 
swayed  back  and  forward  on  the  white-lined 
gridiron  between.  The  wild  noise  of  the  col 
lege  yells  greeting  the  teams,  the  taunting 
horns  that  shattered  the  music  of  the  rival 
bands,  the  shrill  treble  of  gamins  who  had 
climbed  over  impossible  fences,  the  hoarse 
bellow  of  the  brown  paper  megaphones, — all 
this  tumult  had  hushed  suddenly  into  a  tense, 
aching  silence  in  which  fingers  dug  into  board 
seats  and  College  hearts  stopped  beating 
when  the  teams  faced  each  other  for  the 
kick-off. 

The  uproar  boomed  forth  again,  and  pres 
ently  the  Stanford  bleachers  became  silent 
from  breathless  watching.  The  first  five 
minutes  of  play  meant  most  to  the  cardinal. 
In  that  dozen  rushes,  they  could  tell  whether 
there  was  a  chance  of  winning  or  whether  the 
hope  of  victory  had  died  with  Blake.  The 
first  Berkeley  play  went  at  the  line  and 
crumpled  up  without  gain;  again  it  held  and 


113  Stanford  Stories. 

again,  until  the  crowd  felt  that  there  was  more 
than  hope,  that  the  Stanford  stone-wall  de 
fense  would  win  out  once  more.  Yet  so 
closely  were  the  teams  matched  that  they 
swung  back  and  forth  without  score  for  a 
good  half. 

When  the  game  was  almost  at  the  end  of 
the  second  half,  the  score  was  tie,  6-6.  But 
Berkeley  was  sure  of  the  day.  She  had  forced 
her  adversaries  to  their  five-yard  line,  and 
there  were  only  six  minutes  left  to  play. 
Stanford  took  a  desperate  brace  and  Berkeley 
lost  the  ball  on  downs.  If  only  Stanford 
could  gain  ground  now,  or  if  time  could  be 
called.  Nobody  wanted  a  tie,  to  be  sure,  but 
defeat  was  hard  to  accept, — the  first  time,  too. 

Diemann  of  Stanford  crouched  on  the  side 
lines  with  a  heart  of  lead.  The  game  was 
lost.  What  he  had  looked  for,  hoping  against 
hope  since  play  was  called,  had  not  hap 
pened.  Ashley  had  played  his  usual  hard, 
consistent  game,  straining  every  muscle, 
punting  longer  and  higher  than  ever  before, 
but  missing  stupidly  some  golden  chances, 
the  chances  Blake  would  never  have  let  slip 
by.  Diemann  had  talked  to  him  between 
halves,  a  few  eager  words,  urging  him  to 
quickness,  reminding  him  of  Fred.  The  sub 
stitute  had  only  shaken  his  head,  and  mut 
tered  that  he  was  doing  his  best.  Toward  the 
end  of  the  second  he  had  shown  the  severity 


The  Substituted   Fullback.         IX3 

of  the  strain.  Playing  his  hardest,  with  de 
spair  in  his  soul,  it  had  told  on  him.  In  the 
last  scrimmages  his  work  had  been  very 
ragged.  Indeed,  the  whole  team  seemed  to 
have  slumped,  and  the  Berkeley  line  had 
hammered  them  down  toward  their  own  goal 
while  precious  seconds  slipped  by. 

Now  the  men  lined  up  rapidly.  Stanford 
tried  an  end  play.  No  gain.  Diemann 
stood  back  of  the  team  at  one  side  of  the 
goal;  he  was  struggling  hard  to  be  calm,  but 
he  did  a  strange  thing.  He  seized  a  small 
megaphone  from  the  hands  of  an  urchin  be 
side  him,  and  just  as  they  lined  up  after  Stan 
ford's  unsuccessful  trial  at  end,  he  stepped  to 
the  white  goal  line  and  raising  the  funnel  to 
his  lips  shouted  in  a  voice  audible  to  every 
man  on  both  teams: 

"Now,  Fred  Blake,  play  your  game!" 

Lyman  heard  and  looked  back,  wondering. 

Ashley  heard.  He  stared  at  the  grand 
stand  with  a  bewildered,  appealing  face.  Then 
the  signal  was  given.  It  sent  Ashley  through 
tackle.  The  boy,  feeling  as  though  he  had 
lost  the  game  for  his  College  where  the  other 
man  would  have  won,  went  into  the  line  with 
the  energy  of  a  forlorn  hope.  The  Berkeley 
men  gathered  their  superior  force,  and  the 
Stanford  team  was  lifted  up  and  borne  back, 
a  gradually  shifting  mass,  to  its  own  goal  line. 

Were   they    over?     The    Berkeley    crowd 


n4  Stanford  Stones. 

yelled,  and  an  exultant  sub  threw  his  sweater 
in  the  air.  No,  the  teams  were  up,  and  the 
ball  was  almost  on  the  line,  not  quite.  There 
remained  a  chance  to  punt  it  out  of  danger. 
Could  Ashley  do  it  quickly  enough?  He  had 
been  punting  too  slowly;  the  other  line  could 
surely  get  through  and  block  his  kick,  and 
there  were  only  two  minutes  to  play. 

Diemann,  rigid  with  anxiety,  saw  that  a 
Stanford  man  still  lay  on  the  ground.  Strain 
ing  his  eyes  through  the  dusk,  a  glance  at  the 
team  told  him  that  it  was  Ashley.  The  drawn 
muscles  of  the  instructor's  legs  trembled,  the 
blood  beat  in  his  temples.  Was  it  coming,  at 
the  last  moment? 

As  the  trainer  shot  out  from  the  side-lines 
with  bucket  and  sponge,  Diemann  saw  Ash 
ley  spring  up,  slap  the  grimy  moleskins  of 
the  men  nearest  him,  and  get  back  into  posi 
tion  to  kick.  Stanford  was  standing  on  her 
own  goal  line.  He  saw  the  ball  snapped 
back;  the  fullback  kicked  it,  in  time;  then, 
instead  of  the  long,  curving  drive  that  was 
to  save  the  day,  he  saw  the  ball  rise  almost 
straight  in  the  air  above  the  teams,  and  he 
groaned  aloud  as  the  Berkeley  men  broke 
through,  and  people  with  delirious  laughter 
waved  the  blue  and  gold  frantically  about 
him. 

The  ball  comes  down  among  the  struggling 
players.  Suddenly,  out  of  triat  jumble  of  men 


The  Substituted  Fullback.          "5 

darts  a  red-sleeved  figure,  dashing  through 
the  scattered  field,  bounding  like  a  stag 
toward  the  Berkeley  goal. 

The  expert  eye  of  the  associate  coach  tells 
him  that,  by  a  marvellous  piece  of  football 
instinct,  Ashley  has  found  his  way  through 
the  confused  teams,  realizing  that  he  is  the 
only  Stanford  man  on  side,  and  has  caught 
the  ball  on  the  fly  and  got  clear  with  it.  Though 
they  understand  nothing  of  this,  the  vast 
crowd  goes  shrieking  to  its  feet.  The  bewil 
dered  teams  turn  and  follow  close  upon  the 
flying  figure,  the  speedy  Berkeley  right-half 
leading  them.  Back  in  the  field  stands  the 
U.  C.  fullback,  grimly  waiting.  The  two  col 
lide,  and  the  chasing  halfback  gains;  but  the 
Berkeley  back  drops  to  the  tackle  a  fraction 
of  an  instant  too  late  and  runs  fair  against 
a  straight-arm.  Tom  Ashley,  with  the  ball 
clutched  tight  against  his  breast,  his  set  face 
gleaming  white  in  the  half-light,  sprints  down 
the  long  barred  space  toward  victory,  keep 
ing  the  distance  between  himself  and  the 
straining  pack,  running  as  only  one  man  has 
ever  run  for  Stanford. 

And  Diemann,  tearing  along  the  side-line, 
knows  that  Ashley  himself  never  could  have 
done  it. 

The  fullback  falls  across  the  line,  the  ball 
gripped  in  his  convulsive  hold,  just  as  the 
linesman's  whistle  blows.  Diemann  is  there 


116  Stanford  Stories. 

almost  as  soon.  He  keeps  back  the  frenzied 
men  crowding  about  them,  and  bends  over 
the  unconscious  player,  calling  him  "Fred" 
irrationally,  while  the  place  catches  fire  with 
the  cardinal  and  Stanford  goes  mad  on  the 

field. 

***** 

Ashley  came  to  consciousness  at  the  hotel. 
Diemann  sat  beside  him,  and  Lyman  and  Dr. 
Forest  stood  by  the  window.  The  substitute 
fullback  sat  up. 

"I  felt  faint  just  then,"  he  said.  "I  couldn't 
help  it;  you  know  about  it,  Diemann."  He 
looked  at  the  other  men. 

"Did  they  get  it  over?"  he  asked. 

Lyman  ran  across  the  room. 

"Tom,  old  man,"  he  said,  choking,  "you 
won  it  for  us,  and  you'll  never  be  forgotten, 
you  and  your  run!" 

The  fullback  looked  at  him  blankly. 

"My  run?"  he  faltered. 

Diemann  came  between  them. 

"Better  lie  down  and  rest  a  bit,  my  boy; 
you  can  talk  later." 

Then,  turning  to  the  others: 

"You  see,"  he  whispered,  "he's  wandering 
a  little  yet." 


TWO  PIONEERS  AND 
AN  AUDIENCE. 


Two  Pioneers  and  an 
Audience. 

"The  Mother  sits  beside  the  bay, 

The  bay  goes  down  to  wed  the  sea, 
And    gone    ye    are,    on    every    tide 
Wherever  men  and  waters  be!" 

On  the  Sunday  night  following  the  Game 
the  smoking-room  at  the  Rho  house  held  the 
greater  part  of  the  Chapter.  As  a  rule,  there 
were  not  so  many  loafing  there  Sunday 
nights;  that  time  was  generally  given  either 
to  sentiment  in  other  places,  or  to  digging 
out  Monday's  work  upstairs,  while  the  fire 
burned  for  the  two  or  three  who  seemed 
never  to  have  any  work  more  important  than 
magazine  reading  or  solitaire.  To-night, 
however,  nearly  every  one  was  gathered 
there,  for  two  "old  men"  were  visiting. 

These  old  men  had  been  out  of  college 
for  two  whole  years.  One  of  them  was  Ralph 
Shirlock.  If  you  were  at  college  in  his  days 
you  knew  him  by  sight,  at  least,  though  you 
were  the  mossiest  dig  that  ever  kept  bright 
till  morning  the  attic  window  of  a  prof's  house 
on  the  Row.  If  you  have  come  up  to  College 
since  then,  and  are  sufficiently  posted  to  know 


120  Stanford  Stories. 

that  there  have  been  other  annuals  before 
this  one  just  issued  by  your  friends  the  Jun 
iors,  you  have  found  his  picture  or  his  name 
on  every  other  page  of  the  earlier  editions. 
Harry  Rice,  who  came  with  him,  was  not  half 
so  well  known,  save  to  the  Faculty  and  the 
circle  of  the  chapter.  He  was  doing  very 
well  in  business,  people  said,  better  than  Shir- 
lock,  probably.  Rice  was  a  keen  fellowt  the 
new  men  could  see  that  at  a  glance;  but 
they  did  not  put  an  arm  about  him  instinct 
ively  in  the  after-dinner  stroll,  as  they  did 
about  Shirlock. 

The  two  alumni  had  spent  Sunday  calling 
upon  the  Faculty  in  Palo  Alto  and  the  Row, 
and  in  post-mortems  with  some  of  the  foot 
ball  men  in  Encina.  After  dinner,  the  fellows 
sat  out  on  the  porch,  strumming  mandolins 
and  singing.  Shirlock  had  been  a  star  on 
the  Glee  Club  two  years  before,  and  he  sang 
again  the  songs  the  college  hummed  after 
him  in  those  days,  while  the  upper-classmen 
looked  at  the  Freshmen  w7ith  a  "now- 
you-see-what-you've- joined"  expression,  or 
nudged  each  other  reminiscently,  until  the 
live-oaks  in  the  pasture  almost  blended  with 
the  long  shadows  under  them,  and^hoarse- 
throated  frogs  were  tuning  up  in  the  irrigat 
ing  ditches.  Then  they  formed  four  abreast 
and  went  down  for  the  mail,  humming  a 
march  song  and  lifting  their  hats  in  concert 


Two  Pioneers  and  an  Audience.    121 

to  Professor  Stillwell  and  his  wife,  smiling 
from  their  porch.  At  the  post-office  the  lines 
broke  and  the  entire  body,  except  the  alumni, 
struggled  into  the  over-crowded  room  ("the 
daily  press"  Pellams  called  it).  This  was 
hardly  necessary,  since  one  man  could  have 
opened  the  fraternity  box  and  distributed  the 
letters;  but  this  is  a  distinct  charm  of  Sunday 
evening  at  the  post-office.  Moreover,  you 
never  know  who  may  be  standing  inside,  and 
if  you  have  forgotten  to  arrange  things  ahead 
it  is  sometimes  well  to  be  first. 

The  pleasant  uncertainty  of  the  evening 
mail  being  over,  the  fellows  mixed  a  while 
with  the  sundry  groups  about  the  low  red 
building,  then  joined  forces  again,  and 
marched  once  around  the  Quad,  arm  in  arm, 
a  line  of  sixteen,  while  Bob  Duncan,  who  had 
been  prepped  at  a  military  school,  shouted, 
"Change  step,  march,"  and  "Left  wheel, 
march,"  then  home  together,  all  but  two  or 
three,  who  were  called  the  "Incurables,"  and 
who  had  plunged  back  into  the  shadow  of  the 
Quad  for  Chapel,  perhaps,  or  some  other  form 
of  Sabbath  evening  devotion.  This  breach 
of  hospitality  the  alumni  forgave,  made  indul 
gent  by  a  sweet  sympathy. 

Alas  for  you,  old  worshippers  at  empty 
shrines!  Those  divine  presences  are  gone, 
new  and  unknown  deities  queen  it  in  the 
ancient  temples.  Go  back  to  the  haarth 


122  Stanford  Stories. 

where  some  still  know  you  and  talk  to  the 
few  who  gather  around  you  there,  of  the  old 
days  when  you,  too,  placed  your  offering  at 
celestial  feet.  These  men  of  a  new  genera 
tion,  sitting  in  places  that  once  were  yours, 
will  listen  indulgently  to  your  stories  of  the 
past,  and  hear  with  patience  the  odious  com 
parisons  you  inevitably  make ;  they  will  thank 
you  for  the  advice  you  give  them,  and  say 
something  pleasant  about  your  college  spirit; 
then  in  the  morning  when  you  have  taken  the 
early  train  back  to  the  World,  they  will  go 
down  to  the  Quad  with  their  books  under 
their  arms  and  something  in  their  minds  that 
is  anything  but  your  talk  of  the  evening  be 
fore;  the  College  life  will  go  on  very  much 
as  if  you  had  not  been  back,  O  wise  fossils, 
and  there  will  be  new  graduates  going  out  to 
learn  your  lessons  and  new  undergraduates 
who  will  pay  no  attention  to  them  in  turn. 
So  be  thankful  for  this  brief  hour  before  the 
fire,  with  its  chat  as  light  as  the  tobacco 
smoke  floating  over  "old"  man  and  Fresh 
man  lounging  together,  be  glad  of  the  fellow 
ship  that  welcomes  you,  and  be  content. 

Each  couch  in  the  smoking-room  had  its 
load  of  sprawling  figures.  The  lights  were 
out  by  this  time  and  the  Incurables  had  come 
back  to  the  house  and  ferreted  places  for 
themselves  among  the  tangled  golf  suits  and 
'Varsity  sweaters.  Duncan  had  a  lamp  on  the 


Two  Pioneers  and  an  Audience.    I23 

table  where  he  was  "bossing  a  rabbit";  Pel- 
lams  said  this  was  the  only  kind  of  lab-work 
in  zoology  in  which  Bob  could  get  credit.  A 
pile  of  plates  warmed  before  the  fire  where 
Smith  was  toasting  crackers  at  the  end  of 
a  sharpened  stick.  At  the  piano,  Pellams  was 
softly  playing  "barber  shop"  chords.  It  was 
all  very  lazy  and  comfortable.  The  alumni 
grew  reminiscent. 

"This  noon  while  we  were  walking  up  irom 
Palo  Alto,"  said  Shirlock,  "Mrs.  Stanford 
passed  us  in  her  carriage,  coming  from 
Chapel,  I  suppose.  I  asked  Harry  if  he  re 
membered  how  they  used  to  drive  about  the 
place  inspecting  things,  when  the  Senator 
was  alive." 

"Of  course  I  do,"  spoke  up  Rice,  "it  seems 
odd  that  there  are  so  few  in  college  now  who 
remember  them  together.  To  you  fellows,  I 
suppose,  Mrs.  Stanford  is  the  source  of  the 
University.  To  us  who  saw  them  stand  to 
gether  on  the  platform  that  day  in  October, 
'91,  it  is  the  two  always." 

"Harry,  do  you  remember  our  serenade  at 
the  residence,  after  they  returned  from  Wash 
ington  the  first  time?" 

"No,"  answered  Rice,  "I  remember,  but  I 
wasn't  there.  We  played  a  game  somewhere 
that  day  and  I  stayed  over  and  missed  the 
fun." 

"Tell  us  about  it,  Ralph,"  said  Duncan,  as 


I24  Stanford  Stories. 

he  emptied  the  cubes  of  cheese  into  the  chaf 
ing-dish. 

"Well,  you  see,"  said  Shirlock,  unbraiding 
himself  from  two  affectionate  under-classmen 
on  the  couch  and  sitting  up  in  the  light,  "the 
story  really  begins  with  the  first  football 
game,  which  came  off  in  the  spring  of  '92, 
and  was  ours,  as  every  Freshman  can  tell  you, 
even  though  he  doesn't  know  just  what  is 
meant  by  'Pioneers.'  The  day  of  the  game, 
Whittemore,  the  captain,  got  a  telegram  from 
Washington  wishing  us  luck  in  our  first  en 
counter,  and  that  afternoon  we  sent  back 
answer  in  much  the  same  style  that  Caesar 
used  on  one  occasion — I  suppose  the  little 
man  to  my  left  here  can  give  me  the  Latin 
words?"  he  added,  rumpling  the  hair  of  a 
horizontal  Freshman. 

"Not  long  afterward  the  Senator  and  Mrs. 
Stanford  came  back  from  the  East  and  some 
one  over  in  the  Hall  proposed  that  we  give 
them  a  welcome  home.  We  could  get  a  big 
ger  demonstration  there  in  those  days  than 
you  can  now,  I'll  bet;  you  know  everybody 
who  was  anybody  at  all  lived  in  Encina  then; 
that  was  the  center  of  the  College  life,  politics 
began  and  grew  up  there,  and  it  was  over 
there  in  the  old  lobby  that  we  started  the 
Stanford  spirit.  Things  were  great,  that  first 
year.  It's  all  right  enough  here  by  our  own 
fireside,  with  our  own  little  gang,  but  I  tell 


Two  Pioneers  and  an  Audience.    I25 

you  honestly  if  things  could  have  lasted  as 
they  were  that  first  year,  I  wouldn't  have 
wanted  to  come  over  here.  We  were  all  to 
gether,  right  in  line  for  everything,  wise  or 
foolish." 

"It  was  the  student  body  then,  all  right," 
put  in  Rice,  "and  we  had  the  Faculty  with  us 
too,  whether  we  were  around  the  gridiron, 
where  they  first  had  it,  east  of  the  cinder  path, 
you  know,  learning  the  yell  and  incidentally 
getting  the  team  into  condition  for  that  14-10, 
or  whether  we  were  crawling  by  our  lonelies 
through  the  fence  over  in  the  vineyard." 

"The   days   of  grapes, 
The  days  of  scrapes," 

sang  Pellams  from  the  piano. 

"Were  there  any  profs  on  that  flat-car?"  in 
terrupted  Duncan.  He  had  come  into  College 
while  a  memory  of  that  pioneer  adventure  yet 
lingered. 

"It's  unkind  to  remind  us  of  that  affair! 
No,  I  don't  think  there  were.  The  Faculty 
had  their  fun  later,  and  we  put  mourning 
wreaths  on  several  chairs  in  the  dining- 
room." 

"And  you  came  mighty  near  getting  a  bou 
quet  of  the  same  kind,  yourself,"  said  Rice. 

"What  was  it  about  the  flat-car?"  inquired 
a  voice  from  the  pillows. 


126  Stanford  Stones. 

"Oh,"  said  Rice,  "that  was  about  the  first 
of  those  senseless  ebullitions  of  youth  that 
the  Shirlock  person  usually  identified  him 
self  with.  There  was  a  flat-car  standing  out 
side  Encina  on  the  track  there,  just  about 
where  it  turns  and  slopes  down  crosslots  to 
the  main  track.  This  is  just  what  Ralph  and 
his  precious  gang  wanted,  of  course;  they 
thought  it  would  be  a  bit  of  innocent,  boyish 
play  to  have  a  little  free  railroading,  so  they 
piled  on  and  turned  her  loose  and  slid  down 
to  Mayfield.  They  barely  stopped  the  car 
before  she  switched  into  the  main  line,  and 
they  all  fell  off  into  the  gopher  holes  along 
the  side  and  made  for  Mayfield,  red-eyed. 
The  Faculty  raised  Ned  when  they  heard 
about  it,  which  was  proper." 

"I  hope  the  Freshmen  will  pay  particular 
attention  to  Mr.  Rice,"  said  Shirlock.  "He 
is  a  noble  influence  to  any  sweet,  unfolding 
soul.  I  feel  that  I  should  have  escaped  a 
great  deal  of  enjoyable  sin  had  I  only  known 
him  better  those  first  few  weeks." 

Ralph  got  up  for  some  cigarette  tobacco 
from  the  skull  on  the  mantelpiece. 

"Well,  the  Faculty  were  with  us  in  about 
everything,"  he  went  on,  rolling  a  cigarette; 
"many  of  them  lived  in  the  Hall  then." 

"Yes,  a  number  did,"  put  in  Rice.  "Do  you 
remember,  Ralph,  the  night  that  Professor 
Torts  had  his  little  beer-and-skittles  party  in 


Two  Pioneers  and  an  Audience.    I27 

his  lair,  and  Burns,  who  roomed  across  the 
passage  and  who  was  the  worst  bummer  in 
Encina,  went  down  to  Fessler,  and  com 
plained  that  he  couldn't  study  because  of  the 
noise  in  that  number?  And  Fessler  forgot 
who  roomed  there  and  came  up  and  gave 
them  Tartarus  through  the  keyhole  and 
nearly  dropped  when  Torts  opened  the  door?" 

"We  all  enjoyed  that,"  answered  Shirlock. 
"Why,  the  profs  used  to  come  to  our  feeds 
and  jolly  up  with  the  crowd.  Often  they  were 
the  best  fun  there.  It's  different  now." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know,"  said  Duncan,  "they 
come  over  off  and  on,  now.  Doc  Jordan  was 
here  last  Sunday  to  dinner,  and  Diemann 
drops  in  sometimes;  last  year  he  came  a  lot." 

"Oh,  they  come  over  all  right,"  sighed 
Pellams  from  the  piano.  "I  had  a  report  to 
make  one  day.  I  didn't  have  it  done,  and 
I  bribed  Ted  to  go  down  and  tell  Engbee  I 
was  sick  in  bed.  I  was  playing  cards  in  here 
when  Sniffles  rushed  in  and  told  me  the  old 
boy  was  coming  up  the  street.  I  smelt 
danger  and  tumbled  into  bed  like  a  six-day 
bicyclist,  and  fixed  my  face  up  with  some 
grease  paint  and  magnesia.  Sure  enough,  he 
came  in,  darkly  suspicious,  thought  he  had 
me  all  right,  but  he  found  a  wreck  that 
melted  him.  His  wife  sent  me  a  bunch  of 
violets  next  morning.  For  my  part  I  don't 
like  the  Faculty  for  intimate  friends,"  and 


128  Stanford  Stories. 

Pellams  played  "Comrades"  with  the  soft 
pedal  down. 

"It's  not  the  same  thing,  though,  really," 
persisted  Shirlock.  "They  may  come  over 
here  to  dinner  or  perhaps  to  a  smoker,  but 
it's  always  Professor  So-and-So;  his  chair  is 
a  little  higher  than  any  of  yours,  and  he  never 
forgets  the  family  waiting  for  him  in  the 
Row;  in  those  first  days  the  family  was  in 
most  cases  beyond  the  Rockies,  or  as  yet  a 
dream,  and  it  wasn't  always  easy  to  pick  out 
the  professor  from  the  jumble  of  story-tellers 
on  the  bed. 

"Of  course,  it  was  all  too  good  to  last,"  the 
alumnus  went  on  thoughtfully,  "and  it  wasn't 
natural  it  should.  We  weren't  so  many  then. 
When  the  number  increased,  I  suppose  the 
relations  had  to  change  and  the  different 
cliques  must  separate.  I'll  admit  that  there  is 
more  in  the  life  now,  it's  more  complex,  there 
are  more  institutions  and  more  ways  of  hav 
ing  joy;  but  those  were  good  old  days,  those 
first  days  in  Encina  when  the  crowd  was  one. 

"I  can  see  them  now,  can't  you,  Harry? 
out  on  the  veranda  and  the  steps  of  the  Hall 
after  dinner,  with  the  fellows  playing  ball 
on  the  lawn,  and  other  men  sitting  up  on  their 
window-ledges.  The  night  I  started  to  tell 
you  about,  when  we  went  to  serenade  Mr.  and 
Mrs.  Stanford,  we  got  the  mandolin  fellows, 
the  beginning  of  your  present  club,  and  fell 


Two  Pioneers  and  an  Audience.    I29 

in  behind  them  and  started  off  down  the  road, 
past  the  mausoleum  and  through  the  vine 
yard — never  broke  ranks  there,  either,  we 
were  on  our  good  behavior,  besides,  it  was 
Spring — and  so  on  over  to  the  house,  where 
we  drew  up,  and  the  mandolins  played  their 
piece,  then  we  gave  the  yell — it  was  only  a 
few  months  old,  that  yell,  but  it  had  been 
loud  enough  to  knock  out  a  twenty-five-year- 
old  one  we  met  up  in  town  not  long  before, 
and  we  were  proud  of  it. 

"During  the  pause  that  followed,  .the  front 
door  opened  and  the  Senator  stepped  out 
on  the  porch;  a  lamp  shone  on  his  gray  head 
and  on  us  fellows  in  a  big  black  crowd  on  the 
gravel  below,  looking  up  at  him  and  cheering. 
When  we  stopped  he  said,  very  much  as 
though  a  friend  had  driven  up,  "Gentlemen, 
will  you  come  in?"  and  the  whole  two  hun 
dred  of  us  piled  over  the  piazza,  getting  a 
grasp  of  his  hand  as  we  came  into  the  hall, 
and  a  word  from  Mrs.  Stanford,  who  stood 
beside  him.  They  took  us  into  the  library; 
we  formed  a  hollow  square,  two  rows  deep 
on  the  sides,  and  the  Founders  came  into  the 
square  and  talked  to  us.  I  remember  that 
Mrs.  Stanford  said,  'We  were  very  glad,  young 
gentlemen,  to  hear  of  your  success  in  base 
ball,'  and  what  a  chill  it  gave  us,  just  conva 
lescing  from  the  football  fever;  but  we  for 
gave  the  mistake  when  she  asked,  a  minute 


J3°  Stanford  Stones. 

later,  'Which  is  Mr.  Clemans?'  That  blush 
ing  hero  with  the  other  ten  we  forced  into 
the  center  to  be  congratulated,  and  we  sang 
the  new  song,  'Rush  the  Ball  Along/  until  the 
bric-a-brac  trembled. 

"When  we  were  quiet  again,  the  Senator 
talked  to  us  informally,  as  though  we  were  in 
reality  his  children  as  he  had  said  we  were 
to  be.  It  was  an  earnest  talk,  about  his  ideals 
of  what  the  University  was  yet  to  be,  and  his 
hope  for  their  fulfillment;  of  economy  and 
judicious  living;  and  of  endeavor  to  be  of  use 
to  the  world.  It  was  a  privilege  to  stand  there 
listening.  He  appealed  to  each  one  of  us  in 
dividually.  We  could  not  know  then  how 
few  more  such  opportunities  we  were  to  have. 
When  he  had  finished,  the  dining-room  doors 
slid  back — it  was  a  put-up  job,  that  serenade 
— and  it  was  Mrs.  Stanford's  turn.  After  the 
supper,  we  gathered  for  a  little  personal  talk 
with  both  of  them,  then  we  had  some  more 
mandolin  music,  and  Baker  sang  'Suwanee 
River'  to  Capfon's  accompaniment. 

"That  evening  brought  the  Founders  pretty 
close  to  the  crowd.  It  was  a  good  thing  to 
have  happen,  it  began  things  right.  Then, 
you  know,  he  died  suddenly,  in  vacation.  I 
was  in  Yosemite.  When  term  opened,  it  was 
hard  to  get  used  to  seeing  her  driving  around 
the  campus  alone.  I  don't  think  any  of  the 
people  who  came  after  those  early  days  can 


Two  Pioneers  and  an  Audience.    I3I 

ever  be  so  loyal  to  the  Founders,  to  the  per 
son  of  one  and  the  memory  of  the  other,  as 
we  are.  I'm  sure  none  of  us  who  went  over 
serenading  that  night  will  ever  forget  it.  It's 
one  of  the  Pioneer  memories." 

Both  graduates  were  looking  into  the  fire. 
Freshman  Haviland  snored  softly  in  the  win 
dow  seat.  The  eyes  of  the  rest  of  the  chap 
ter  were  fastened  on  the  chafing-dish.  Shir- 
lock's  story  had  seemed  pretty  long  and  the 
rarebit  sent  out  a  tantalizing  odor. 

Duncan  called  out,  "Supper's  ready,  chil 
dren,"  and  the  heated  plates  came  clattering 
up  from  the  hearth,  bringing  the  visitors 
back  from  the  far  echoes  of  their  own  begin 
nings  to  the  noisy  unconcern  of  a  Freshman 
year  that  knew  a  kind,  white-bearded  face 
from  pictures  only,  and  never  could  under 
stand. 


FOR  THE  SAKE  OF 
ARGUMENT. 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument. 

"For    we    are    frank    and    twenty 
And  the   spring   is   in   the   air!" 

HOVEY. 

"Well!"  said  Miss  Meiggs,  spreading  across 
her  lap  one  of  the  Beta  Rhos'  new  mono- 
grammed  napkins,  "I  must  say  your  being  here 
is  a  surprise." 

Peilams  answered  in  vague  interrogation, 
not  a  little  surprised,  himself,  to  be  caught  at 
a  "girl-supper."  Now  that  he  was  cornered,  it 
would  be  uselessly  impolite  to  tell  her  how  the 
Chapter  had  reasoned  and  pleaded  with  him 
until  at  the  last  minute  "Cap"  Smith  ruined 
his  clever  escape  by  catching  him  midway 
down  a  porch  pillar.  Smith,  sitting  on  the 
other  side  of  Katharine  Graham  and  wearing 
the  smile  of  satisfied  revenge,  would  doubtless 
enjoy  telling  it.  There  was  so  much  of  genial 
malevolence  in  that  smile  that  Peilams,  the 
woman-hater,  who  knew  only  enough  of  the 
co-eds  to  avoid  them,  wondered  what  sort  of 
a  girl  he  had  been  placed  next  to  at  supper. 
He  had  an  intuitive  idea  that  she  had  been 
given  him  by  general  consent.  An  expe 
rienced  society  man  would  have  scented  this 
135 


J36  Stanford  Stories. 

at  once  in  the  company  of  Mrs.  Perkins,  for 
when  there  is  a  choice  of  tables,  chapter- 
mothers  are  apt  to  sit  where  there  is  the  least 
sentiment;  but  this  was  the  Junior's  debut, 
practically,  and  he  was  conscious  of  little  more 
than  that  the  fellows  had  it  "in"  for  him,  and 
that  this  girl  had  begun  the  conversation  by  a 
personal  remark. 

"I  judged,"  the  girl  was  saying,  not  having 
waited  for  any  explanation,  "that  in  the  milder 
forms  of  social  entertainment  you  were  some 
what  out  of  your  element." 

Pellams  had  missed  his  guess.  On  sitting 
down  to  their  small  table,  he  had  decided  that 
the  conversation  would  naturally  split  into  two 
divisions  of  three  rather  than  into  three 
couples,  for  Mrs.  Perkins,  Professor  Grind  and 
this  Meiggs  girl  would  enjoy  themselves  to 
gether,  leaving  him  to  share  Smith's  talk  with 
Miss  Graham,  whose  eyes  had  somehow  an 
engaging  twinkle.  The  idea  was  rudely  dis 
pelled  by  Miss  Meiggs's  immediate  and  de 
cidedly  personal  attack.  At  least,  he  would 
have  preferred  to  talk  about  other  people,  but 
he  faced  the  music. 

"Oh,  I  disapprove  of  them  only  for  myself," 
he  replied,  "not  for  others." 

"And  why  for  yourself,  particularly?" 

The  face  of  the  Glee  Club's  comedian  had 
assumed  just  the  right  seriousness. 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        J37 

"Because  I'm  more  than  susceptible  and  I 
don't  want  to  run  risks." 

"Your  time  has  come  at  last,  then,"  put  in 
his  captor,  Smith,  with  a  gallant  look  at  Miss 
Meiggs. 

"Not  at  all,"  retorted  Pellams,  whose  com 
bative  sense  was  less  rusty  than  his  skill  in 
compliment.  "If  I'd  been  afraid  of  one  ex 
posure  like  this,  do  you  think  I'd  have  sug 
gested  being  on  deck  to-night?" 

Smith,  with  a  fresh  memory  of  their  strug 
gle,  laughed  at  this  blocking  move.  Katharine 
Graham,  although  she  did  not  laugh,  enjoyed 
Pellams's  unconscious  "like  this."  She  was 
a  Theta  Gamma  with  Miss  Meiggs,  and  of  late 
there  had  been  a  little  rift  in  their  sisterly  love. 

The  older  girl  was  not  disconcerted.  She 
had  her  estimate  of  Pellams  Chase,  and  he  was 
not  disproving  it.  There  were  certain  things 
she  had  long  wanted  the  chance  to  say  to 
him. 

"I  admire  your  self-restraint  under  tempta 
tion,"  she  said;  "it  is  characteristic  of  you  in 
other  circumstances,  I  believe" — this  with  dis 
creet  emphasis — "but,  really,  why  should  you 
dread  letting  this  susceptibility  get  the  better 
of  you?" 

Pellams  caught  the  faint  sneer  in  the  words. 
He  hoped  that  Mrs.  Perkins  had  been  talking 
just  then  to  her  Faculty  partner.  Increasing 
his  affected  earnestness,  he  replied: 


*38  Stanford  Stones. 

"Because,  when  you  get  gone,  it  is  bound 
to  knock  scholarship." 

Here  Smith  giggled  audibly,  for  Katharine 
and  he  were  really  feigning  talk,  being  more 
entertained  by  the  couple  across  the  cloth. 
Katharine  knew  that  by  this  last  statement 
Pellams  had  sounded  a  dominant  note  in  the 
soul  of  her  opinionated  sister.  She  was  not 
surprised,  then,  when  Miss  Meiggs  turned 
more  fully  toward  the  woman-hater. 

"Tell  me,  are  you  one  of  these  people  who 
think  co-education  an  evil?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  am."  The  speech  gave  Pel- 
lams  a  certain  pleasure.  There  was  nothing 
about  this  partner  they  had  given  him  that 
tended  toward  converting  him  to  the  Chap 
ter's  point  of  view  as  to  the  advantage  of 
girls  at  college. 

"Of  course,"  continued  she,  "I  do  not  take 
your  remark  about  scholarship  as  worthy  of 
consideration  in  your  case,  because  I  am  in 
one  or  two  of  your  classes,  when  you  attend 
them,"  and  Pellams,  listening,  gave  thanks 
that  he  and  Professor. Grind  opposite  had  no 
such  relation;  "but  monopolized  time  is  really 
the  cry  of  a  good  many  who  would  wish  to 
work,  and  it  is  all  wrong.  There  is  no  reason 
why  we  should  not  come  here  and  work  with 
you,  combining  friendship  and  study.  Our 
presence  here  is,  in  a  way,  preventive  of  many 
worse  things." 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        *39 

Pellams  turned  his  empty  salad  plate  be 
tween  his  fingers. 

"Well,"  he  drawled,  "I'm  not  sure  I  know 
what  you  mean  by  the  wrorse  things,  and  I've 
never  been  to  another  college,  except  Berke 
ley,  but  I  can't  believe  as  much  time  is  spent  on 
them  as  some  people  here  give  to  girls,"  this 
with  a  dreamy  look  over  Smith's  head;  "the 
cigarette  heart  can't  be  much  worse  than  what 
takes  men  out  of  college  here,  and  if  you  refer 
to  beer " 

"I  do  refer  to  beer,"  said  Miss  Meiggs,  in 
an  iced  voice. 

"Oh,  no!"  expostulated  the  Junior,  spread 
ing  his  hands,  "they  couldn't  do  it!"  He 
looked  at  her  frankly.  "You  get  a  head  after 
too  much  beer,"  he  went  on,  reckless  as  to 
pronouns  and  listening  professors,  "and  you 
stay  sober  and  work,  for  awhile,  any  way.  In 
co-education  you  don't  get  any  such  call-down 
until  the  Committee  meets." 

"Don't  let  him  tease  you,  Miss  Meiggs,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Perkins,  frowning  mildly  at  Pellams 
because  of  Professor  Grind's  sphinx-like  smile; 
"he's  making  it  all  up  out  of  his  inner  con 
sciousness,  like  the  German  philosopher  and 
the — elephant,  wasn't  it,  Professor  Grind?" 

"Yes?"  answered  Miss  Meiggs,  with  a  world 
of  irony  packed  into  the  syllable;  "your  inner 
consciousness,  then,  Mr.  Chase,  proves  rather 
forcibly  that  in  one  case  the  influence  is  against 


J4°  Stanford  Stories. 

refinement,  while  in  the  case  of  co-education 
it  is  all  for  it.  You  will  grant  that,  I  think?" 

Quite  by  accident,  Pellams  caught  Miss 
Graham's  eye.  The  twinkle  there  was  a  sort  of 
glorified  "sic 'im!" 

"On  the  contrary,"  said  he,  perfectly  com 
posed,  "I  think  it's  the  girl  that's  refined." 

Miss  Meiggs's  "What!"  was  almost  a  shriek. 
Foo,  the  table-boy,  brought  her  just  then  a 
plate  of  creamy  rarebit.  He  had  a  jacket  of 
luminous  green  silk,  with  the  fraternity  mon 
ogram  in  white,  and  he  wore  his  cue  hanging. 
But  the  fragrance  of  the  rarebit  and  the  splen 
dor  of  Foo's  toilet  were  alike  lost  upon  the 
aroused  Miss  Meiggs.  Such  a  statement,  from 
this  man  of  all  others! 

"You  are  judging  us  with  yourself  as  a 
basis  of  contrast,  I  fancy!" 

Not  displeased  at  having  put  her  in  ill- 
humor,  and  refusing  a  gentle  attempt  on  Mrs. 
Perkins'  part  to  lead  the  conversation  else 
where,  he  went  on  with  aggravated  serious 
ness: 

"But  there  is  hope  for  me  here,  with  the 
Faculty  and  with  books" — he  choked  a  little 
over  this;  "a  man  doesn't  need  to  go  through 
from  one  to  eight  love-affairs." 

The  champion  of  co-education  sniffed. 

"Nothing  was  further  from  my  thoughts," 
said  she.  "The  association  of  men  and  women 
in  an  atmosphere  of  study  does  not  mean  sen- 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.       *4X 

timentality.  The  relation  should  be  normal 
and  helpful,  not  spoiled  by  extremes."  Kath 
arine  had  heard  these  views  before. 

"But  they  can't  dodge  the  extremes,  you 
see,"  persisted  Pellams.  "It's  the  place  here, 
the  walks  and  drives  in  the  country  and  all. 
Your  theory  might  work  all  right  at  a  city 
college  or  even  at  Berkeley,  but  on  this  cam 
pus,  nit  so!" 

"The  reasoning  of  inexperience.  There  are 
stronger  interests  in  nature  than  boy-and-girl 
foolishness — unless  one  is  idle.  Where  it  re 
sults  in  that  sort  of  thing,  I  agree  that  it  is 
all  wrong  and  prejudicial  to  scholarship  and 
thoroughly  unnecessary  and  inexcusable" — 
with  these  words  a  slow  glance  at  Katharine 
that  spoke  of  arguments  in  the  past.  "A  man 
does  not  have  to  fall  in  love  purely  because 
he  and  a  girl  are  in  the  country  at  the  same 
time." 

"But  all  the  girls  are  not  like  you,"  began 
Pellams,  and  stopped  at  the  sound  of  the 
words.  They  were  not  in  the  least  intended  to 
be  taken  as  he  felt  that  the  table-full  had  taken 
them.  Miss  Meiggs  put  her  fork  viciously  into 
the  neglected  rarebit.  In  the  uncomfortable 
pause,  Mrs.  Perkins  flutteringly  passed  her  the 
cayenne  pepper,  but  Miss  Meiggs  ignored  the 
courtesy.  She  turned  to  Pellams. 

"Even  a  love-affair,"  she  snapped,  "would 
benefit  you  more  than  the  substitute  you  havp 


H2  Stanford  Stories. 

chosen!  You  are  a  nice  one  to  argue  the  re 
finement  of  the  college  girl!  Are  you  refining 
yourself,  your  fraternity  or  your  favorite  side 
of  the  student-body  by  carousing  at  Mayfield 
and  carrying  the  viciousness  of  that  town  to 
others  where  you  may  represent  the  Univer 
sity?" 

"Oh,  I  say!"  protested  the  Glee  Club  man, 
uneasily,  for  Grind  was  on  the  Committee; 
"don't  be  too  hard  on  me." 

"I'm  sure  you're  unjust  to  Pellams,"  said 
the  Chapter-mother,  with  a  troubled  look  at 
her  black  lamb,  who  wondered  what  was  com 
ing:  "I  don't  believe  he " 

Miss  Meiggs,  peppering  her  rarebit  delib 
erately,  interrupted,  with  a  little  toss  of  the 
head. 

"I  will  ask  Mr.  Chase  one  question  then." 
She  gathered  some  of  the  cheese  upon  her 
fork,  and,  balancing  it  midway  to  her  mouth, 
went  on  with  a  gloating  clearness  of  enuncia 
tion.  "Please  tell  us  why  you  came  to  the 
afternoon  concert  at  the  Chico  Normal  School 
this  summer  in  a  colored  shirt  and  your  dress 
suit,  and  why  you  did  not  sing  your  part  of 
the  program?" 

"That's  two  questions,"  murmured  Pellams. 
He  could  not  look  at  Mrs.  Perkins,  to  whom 
he  had  made  certain  solemn  promises  before 
that  very  trip;  but  his  adversary  had  turned 
toward  her  with  a  look  of  righteous  triumph. 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        T43 

So  deftly  that  even  Pellams  barely  saw  it, 
Katharine  reached  across  him  and  peppered 
the  forkful  of  rarebit  just  before  the  lips  of 
Miss  Meiggs  closed  over  it.  His  answer  was 
overlooked. 

Mrs.  Perkins  took  the  sufferer  up  to  her  own 
room  and  Katharine  vanished  somewhere  with 
Smith.  When  the  tables  were  removed,  a  girl 
sat  at  the  piano;  her  song  finished,  she  struck 
briskly  into  the  "Hot  Time,"  and  every  one 
turned  to  Pellams.  He  sang  the  rag-time  as 
though  he  were  bursting  with  fun,  while  the 
Chapter  sat  before  him,  beaming  its  innocent 
gratitude.  But  the  Glee  Club  man  was  sing 
ing  to  one  guest  alone,  and  he  could  not  see 
her,  or  Smith  either.  When  two  songs  had 
failed  to  bring  her  into  view,  he  stole  off  up 
stairs  unmolested  and  lay  for  some  time  with 
his  door  locked,  grinning  before  sleep. 

They  hammered  at  his  door  next  morning 
with  appeals  for  his  appearance  at  first-hour 
recitation,  and  fraternal  reminders  that  he 
hadn't  sufficient  stand-in  to  cut.  Foo  went 
clanging  the  bell  through  the  halls,  dodging 
the  shoes  that  flew  at  him  through  the  door 
of  a  man  who  had  nothing  before  the  fourth 
hour,  and  the  rush  and  hurry  of  late  breakfast- 
time  filled  the  house.  But  Pellams  lay  smok 
ing  in  his  narrow  bed,  engaged  in  the  novel 
task  of  solving  a  point  of  etiquette.  The  af 
fair  of  the  night  before  was  to  be  his  final  ap- 


*44  Stanford  Stories. 

pearance  in  local  society.  His  experience  in 
small-talk  with  Miss  Meiggs  confirmed  his 
decision  to  live  a  college  life  into  which  co 
education  did  not  enter  outside  his  class 
rooms.  Yet,  having  once  departed  from  the 
mode  of  such  a  life,  he  found  himself  under  an 
obligation.  A  co-ed  had  found  him  in  trouble 
and  had  done  the  "white"  thing  by  him  at  a 
critical  moment;  even  Jimmy  Mason,  over  at 
the  Hall,  could  not  have  stood  by  him  any  bet 
ter.  In  an  obligation  to  Jimmy  there  was  no 
problem — only  the  matter  of  time  to  do  his 
part — but  with  a  co-ed,  Pellams  felt  that  it  was 
different.  She  was  not  a  feature  of  his  life. 
To  the  woman-hater's  mind,  if  a  man  has  be 
come  indebted  to  a  girl,  honor  bids  him  pay 
the  debt,  the  sooner  the  better.  He  need  never 
see  the  girl  again,  once  the  score  is  even.  This 
philosophy  evolved,  it  took  another  cigarette  to 
decide  just  how  the  balance  could  be  struck, 
and  then  Pellams  went  downstairs  to  wheedle 
a  remnant  of  breakfast  from  the  indulgent  Foo. 
Applied  to  the  new  element  into  which  he 
had  ventured,  something  of  the  keen  observa 
tion  which  the  Junior  devoted  to  football  prac 
tice  might  have  made  the  payment  of  his  debt 
to  Katharine  Graham  a  transaction  of  less  pub 
lic  note.  He  would  have  waited,  probably, 
with  the  brazenness  that  characterizes  local 
courtship,  at  the  door  of  the  library  and 
caught  her  as  she  emerged.  Or  he  would  have 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        J45 

learned  what  mails  she  usually  waited  for  at 
the  post-office  and  would  have  lingered  until 
she  had  opened  her  box  and  had  started  back 
toward  the  Quad  pretending  to  look  over  her 
correspondence.  Or  else  he  would  have 
watched  her  classes  and  happened  along  by  ac 
cident  just  as  she  was  coming  out  for  a  vacant 
hour.  But  these  established  forms  had  es 
caped  his  notice.  Instead,  he  did  what  he  con 
sidered  the  "proper,"  and  drove  dashingly  up 
to  Roble  in  Paulsen's  best  single  rig  and  his 
own  new  fall  suit. 

Roble  caught  sight  of  him  beyond  the  flower 
beds,  over  the  heads  of  the  tall  pampas.  The 
news  electrified  the  dormitory.  A  Freshman 
stopped  her  experimental  lab-work  with  the 
piano,  and  joined  the  others  behind  the  lace 
at  the  parlor  windows.  A  group  of  girls, 
chatting  on  the  yellow  railing  of  the  steps, 
watched  the  approach  of  the  apparition.  Pel- 
lams  Chase  coming  to  Roble!  Not  since  the 
morning  Mt.  Hamilton  was  covered  with  snow 
had  there  been  such  a  phenomenon. 

"I  believe  he's  coming  to  take  Florence  to 
drive!"  said  a  mischievous  Theta  Gamma, 
looking  toward  Miss  Meiggs,  who  sat  frown 
ing  at  the  approaching  buggy. 

"He  ought  to,"  laughed  Katharine  Gra 
ham's  roommate,  "for  not  telling  her  how 
much  red  pepper  she  had  put  on  her  rarebit 
while  she  was  absorbed  in  talking  to  him!" 


*46  Stanford  Stories. 

"If  he's  coming  for  me,"  said  the  Senior, 
grimly,  "I  shall  not  disappoint  him." 

"What!"  cried  Katharine;  "you  wouldn't  go 
with  him,  Florence!  Why,  we  none  of  us  met 
him  until  last  night." 

"Last  night  I  was  unfortunately  absent- 
minded,"  answered  Miss  Meiggs,  "and  I  did 
not  say  all  I  wanted  to.  It  wouldn't  be  a  pleas 
ant  drive!" 

"He  wrould  have  you  at  his  mercy — you 
shan't  go!"  laughed  another  girl,  "it  would  be 
flying  in  the  face  of  Providence  as  well  as  of 
Propriety!" 

"I  can't  imagine  whom  he's  coming  for," 
said  Katharine,  who  was  sure  that  he  was 
coming  for  her.  She  thought  out  the  severe 
little  refusal  she  should  make  him  when  he 
had  drawn  her  aside. 

The  stranger  scraped  his  buggy  wheels  deli 
cately  along  the  curbing  of  the  Roble  walk. 
The  group  of  girls  on  the  steps  was  an  unex 
pected  ordeal.  He  caught  sight  of  the  amused 
faces  behind  the  curtains  above  him  and  almost 
lost  his  nerve. 

"Rubber!"  he  growled.  He  had  made  many 
a  clever  entrance  in  the  student  theatricals, 
but  to-day  in  climbing  out  of  the  buggy  he  got 
badly  tangled  in  the  reins.  In  spite  of  his 
desperate  will,  his  face  was  growing  red.  With 
painfully  fixed  gaze  he  came  up  the  steps 
toward  the  Theta  Gammas;  standing  uneasily 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        X47 

before  them,  he  blurted  out,  with  no  prelimi 
naries  whatever: 

"Miss  Graham,  would  you  like  to  go  driv- 
ing?" 

Katharine  straightened  and  looked  at  him 
coolly.  One  of  the  girls  gave  a  little  gasp 
at  his  impertinence. 

"It  isn't  customary,  I  believe,"  said  Katha 
rine,  "to  ask  to  go  driving  with  a  girl  you  have 
met  once,  at  a  supper." 

"Isn't  it?"  faltered  Pellams.  There  was  not 
a  vestige  of  his  usual  bravado  about  him. 
Katharine  met  his  honest  gaze,  hesitated,  then 
said: 

"But  I  shall  be  delighted  to  go,  just  the 
same.  Will  you  come  in  and  wait  till  I  get  my 
things?" 

They  curved  round  the  Dormitory  lawn  and 
away  toward  the  La  Honda  redwoods,  leaving 
the  astounded  young  women  on  the  porch  to 
discuss,  as  women  sometimes  do,  the  peculiar 
behavior  of  their  departed  sister. 

She  explained  it  to  Pellams  during  the  drive. 
To  his  surprise,  he  learned  that  he  had  been 
hopelessly  ill-bred  to  ask  her  at  all;  that  had 
the  invitation  not  been  given  before  the  other 
girls  he  should  have  driven  away  alone.  As  it 
was,  she  was  in  for  no  end  of  criticism.  She 
discouraged  any  conversation  upon  the  sub 
ject  of  cayenne  pepper.  Furthermore,  she  de 
clared  herself  in  full  accord  with  Florence 


J48  Stanford  Stories. 

Meiggs  as  regarded  love  affairs;  she  believed 
in  them  as  little  as  her  elder  sister;  good-fel 
lowship,  without  sentiment,  was  possible  and 
quite  sufficient.  Pellams,  having  resolved  upon 
the  utmost  good-nature  during  the  drive,  put 
the  pride  of  the  livery  stable  through  her  best 
paces  and  allowed  his  companion  to  declare 
her  views  unquestioned.  Toward  the  end  of 
the  afternoon,  he  deposited  her  at  the  Roble 
door  with  a  pleasant  feeling  that  he  had  done 
his  duty  and  was  through  with  co-eds  forever. 
A  wild  uproar  filled  the  Rho  dining-room 
when  the  gallant  came  in  to  dinner,  late. 
With  an  exasperating  readiness  of  conclusion, 
the  crowd  congratulated  him  upon  his  change 
of  heart,  they  welcomed  to  their  ranks,  with 
much  clinking  of  water  glasses,  another  true 
lover,  and  Smith  sang  derisively  an  adaptation 
of  his  own: 

"Pellams  Chase,  the  Glee  Club  Man, 

Swore  upon  the  book 
For  wife  he'd  have  a  cider-can, 
For  bed  the  ingle-nook — 
Petticoats  he  thus  forsook!" 

Instead  of  raising  the  expected  storm  of  de 
nial,  Pellams  looked  guilty  and  uncomforta 
ble.  In  spite  of  their  knowledge  of  the  man, 
they  did  not  divine  that  their  teasing  had 
given  him  an  inspiration. 


They  drove  away  toward  the  La  Honda  redwoods 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        J49 

His  idea  for  a  josh  involved  Miss  Graham. 
So  he  waited  for  her  deliberately  outside  the 
door  of  the  French  class  next  morning';  she 
had  stopped  to  talk  to  the  instructor  after  the 
class  had  left.  Jimmy  Mason  and  four  or  five 
of  the  regular  Quad  loafers  were  talking  foot 
ball  on  the  curbing.  Pellams  joined  them. 
Then  the  gravity  of  the  step  he  was  about  to 
take  came  over  him  with  a  sense  of  oppression. 
He  felt  much  as  on  that  Easter  morning,  years 
before,  when  his  mother  had  dragged  him  out 
to  be  confirmed. 

"The  Berkeley  faculty  won't  let  Dudley 
play,"  Mason  was  saying.  "He  hasn't — 
where  are  you  speeding  in  such  a  rush?"  he 
added  and  then  stopped,  paralyzed. 

It  is  probable  that  if  her  eyes  had  not 
laughed  at  him  with  that  twinkle  of  good-fel 
lowship  which  he  had  noted  on  the  night  of 
the  supper,  Pellams  never  would  have  had 
the  nerve.  That  look  hauled  him  over  the 
Rubicon;  they  went  down  the  arcade  to 
gether,  in  the  face  of  Jimmy  Mason,  the  loaf 
ers,  the  whole  crowd  shifting  between  lec 
tures.  Yet  the  sun  shone  as  brightly  on  the 
palm-circles,  the  Quadrangle  pillars  kept  their 
perpendicular.  A  little  later  Mason  saw  the 
couple  sitting  under  the  'Ninety-five  Oak. 
He  whistled  to  himself  with  a  look  that  meant: 
"You  wait,  old  josher  till  you  get  into  the 
Knockery  again!" 


J5°  Stanford  Stories. 

"Now,"  said  Pellams,  under  the  Oak,  "you 
have  about  the  same  ideas  on  love-affairs  as 
I  have  and  you'll  sympathize  with  me  in  this 
thing.  When  I  got  in  to  dinner  last  night, 
the  gang  gave  me  the  hottest  jolly  of  my  mis 
spent  life.  They're  all  alike;  they  can't  under 
stand  having  a  straight  friendship  for  a  girl 
without  it's  being  a  puppy-love.  So  they 
tumble  at  once  that  my  driving  you  means 
I'm  yours  for  keeps.  That  sort  of  a  thing 
makes  me  tres  fatigue  and  I've  a  scheme." 

"Not  your  first,  is  it?" 

"In  what  way  do  you — " 

"I  know  something  of  your  'schemes,' 
young  man;  that  fake  fraternity  and  the 
snipe-hunts  and  an  examination  in  Eng 
lish  i  c." 

"Oh,  those!"  Pellams  did  not  blush  at  the 
record.  Instead,  he  smiled.  His  smile  was 
always  worth  seeing.  It  was  the  point  of 
one  of  his  Club  stunts.  Every  muscle  got 
into  the  interference  and  his  round  face  grew 
rosy  into  the  roots  of  his  thick  brown  hair. 

This  grin  was  not  lost  upon  Katharine. 

"What  am  I  to  do,  pray?"  asked  she;  "pose 
as  Professor  of  Domestic  Economy?" 

"This  is  a  bird  of  a  josh  on  the  house,"  he 
cried.  "You'll  come  in  on  it,  won't  you?" 

"Plans  first,  before  I  commit  myself.  You 
might  want  me  to  elope  in  a  buggy." 

"Never  again!"  declared  Pellams;  "my  idea 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        '51 

is,  why  can't  we  pretend  to  have  a  case  on 
each  other — not  any  passing  fancy,  but  a  real 
peacherino,  like  the  best  of  them?" 

Somewhat  to  his  surprise,  the  girl  was  not 
visibly  enthusiastic. 

"Just  how  do  I  profit,  please,  if  I  butcher 
myself  to  make  your  Roman  holiday?" 

"You  can  die  happy,  knowing  we've  pulled 
their  le — bluffed  'em  beautifully.  You're 
down  on  love-affairs  yourself,  you  told — ' 

"Your  philosophy  of  heaven  includes  a  josh 
on  the  other  fellow,  I  verily  believe,"  returned 
Katharine,  smiling;  "but  it  is  just  possible, 
you  know — shall  I  be  very  frank?" 

"You  have  been,  before!" 

"Well,  then,  I  might,  you  know,  prefer  the 
society  of  some  other  men  in  college  to  the 
exclusive  privilege  of  yours,  even  with  this 
wonderful  josh  thrown  in." 

"Who,  Smith?" 

"There  are  others." 

"I  know  I'm  not  much  of  a  sq — ladies'- 
man,"  he  persisted;  "but  I  can  learn,  can't  I?" 

"Your  manners  are  not  very  dreadful  when 
you  think  about  them;  but  oh,  you  have  lots 
to  master,  the  little  things,  you  know." 

"I  let  you  carry  your  books  this  morn- 
ing-" 

"Bravo! — if  you  only  learn  to  think  of 
them  sooner — all  the  little  ways  a  girl — " 


*52  Stanford  Stories. 

"Sure — you  can  teach  me  and  rap  my 
knuckles — " 

"That  would  be  a  pleasure.  I've  wanted  to 
do  it  for  months." 

"And,  you  see,  you'd  have  the  distinction  of 
being  the  only  one  I  couldn't  hold  out 
against." 

"Oh,  above  all  things,  don't  be  conceited, 
or  I  can't  think  of  it." 

"That  means  you  will  think  of  it?" 

"You're  really  not  half  bad!  You  caught 
that  on  time.  Yes,  I'll  help  you  in  your  joke, 
to  punish  their  silliness,  but  only  for  a  week, 
on  trial  you  understand." 

Pellams,  gratified,  put  out  his  hand,  not  in 
fashionable  wise,  but  as  he  would  grip  a 
man's.  Yet  in  doing  so  he  noted,  looking  at 
her  fully  for  the  first  time,  that  the  light  hair 
on  her  temples  came  down  low  on  the  sides, 
as  his  mother's  did. 

On  the  way  up  to  her  room,  Miss  Graham 
stood  for  some  moments  smiling  at  an  irrela 
tive  picture  of  Westminster  Abbey,  hanging 
in  the  parlor.  Having  gone  driving  before 
their  faces,  it  was  more  presentable  not  to  be 
dropped.  Also,  there  was  an  undeniable 
pleasure  in  refuting  any  of  Florence  Meiggs's 
arguments,  the  one  concerning  love-affairs 
and  scholarship,  for  instance.  Besides,  he 
was  a  dear,  amusing  thing,  and  a  perfect  nov 
ice. 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        X53 

During  the  week  that  followed,  Prllams 
learned  a  few  things.  The  experiment  was 
by  no  means  a  bore.  He  discovered  that  it  is 
easier  to  be  joshed  than  to  josh — when  you 
know  in  your  heart  you  have  the  joke  on  the 
other  fellow.  He  learned  the  revengefulness 
of  Perkins'  nature,  old  Ted,  who  was  ragged 
to  death  when  his  case  on  Lillian  Arnold  de 
veloped  and  who  now  paid  him  back  with  in 
terest.  He  found  how  great  an  object  of 
interest  to  the  co-ed  element  a  man  becomes 
when  he  is  in  love.  All  this  was  good  for  the 
woman-hater,  giving  him  new  views  of  things 
and  teaching  him  patience.  Many  times  dur 
ing  the  ordeal  he  blessed  his  dramatic  talent. 
It  helped  him  to  pretend  a  chap  when  he  did 
not  feel  it.  It  served  him  in  assuming  an 
air  of  "the  game  is  worth  the  candle,"  when 
the  whole  tableful  at  the  house  requoted  to 
him  certain  scathing  remarks  on  the  girl- 
habit  which,  in  the  day  of  his  single  blessed 
ness,  he  had  made  to  each  one  of  them  sep 
arately.  It  was  more  than  useful  to  him  when 
he  rolled  into  the  "Knockery,"  the  second 
evening  after  his  sad  condition  had  become 
patent,  and  the  assembled  company  rose  to 
smother  him  with  sofa  cushions  and  lecture 
him,  with  decided  seriousness,  on  the  evil 
effect  of  girling.  There  were  times,  indeed, 
when  he  didn't  have  to  assume  any  chap  at 
all,  when  it  came  of  itself;  for  example,  when 


!54  Stanford  Stories. 

the  crowd  punned  on  the  girl's  name, 
"Graham  gems"  was  a  favorite.  Somehow, 
he  wished  that  they  wouldn't  drag  in  names 
lhat  way. 

The  week  ended.  He  had  done  beautifully. 
Looking  it  over,  he  was  proud  of  his  achieve 
ments.  Two  evenings  at  the  library ;  a  brazen 
walk  every  day  at  the  10.30  period,  which 
both  had  vacant;  a  stroll  in  the  moon 
lit  Quad,  planned  to  interest  the  crowd  at  the 
Tuesday  evening  lecture ;  two  calls  at  Roble — 
that  was  going  it  pretty  heavy.  The  whole 
college  was  smiling  at  them,  and  the  foolish 
Rho  house  hugged  itself  in  the  blissful  silence 
of  his  sarcastic  tongue. 

This  review  of  the  week  delighted  Pellams. 
He  hunted  up  Katharine  the  last  afternoon 
and  asked  for  a  renewal  of  the  contract. 

She  laughed. 

"Are  you  sure  you  can  help  the  extremes? 
You  know  the  Quadrangle  and  the  walks  in 
the  country — " 

"Listen  to  the  Mocking  Bird!"  gurgled 
Pellams.  He  was  feeling  very  well  pleased 
with  things  in  general. 

"The  product  of  the  means  is  a  bully  good 
josh,"  he  laughed,  "and  I'm  not  afraid  of  the 
product  of  the  extremes;  it's  only-  equal  to 
the  same  thing — now  there's  higher  mathe 
matics  for  you!"  and  Pellams  danced  the 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        J55 

fragment  of  a  shufie,  although  there  was  a 
class  inside. 

"I  really  think  I  am  doing  you  good,"  said 
Katharine.  "You  are  becoming  a  scholar, 
though  you're  not  very  lucid,  and  your  spirits 
aren't  dampened  in  the  least." 

"No,"  said  Pellams,  mournfully,  "it's  a 
whole  week." 

Miss  Graham  ignored  this. 

"If  we  continue  the  compact  for  another 
week,"  she  went  on,  "I  must  add  a  condition. 
How  often  have  you  cut  since  we  started?" 

"No  more  than  usual." 

"Then  your  finish  is  assured,  and  people 
will  say  you  flunked  out  on  my  account — an 
other  clinching  argument  against  co-educa 
tion." 

She  had  managed  cleverly  so  far.  She  had 
let  this  first  week  go  by  without  once  coming 
to  the  point  she  had  in  view,  fearing  to 
frighten  her  patient.  Now  she  brought  it  out. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I  am  going  to  do.  It  is 
to  make  you  bring  a  book  along  every  time 
we  go  strolling.  When  we  get  out  of  peo 
ple's  sight  you've  got  to  study.  I  can't  give 
up  any  more  study-time  to  your  josh  and  you 
mustn't,  either.  There's  no  need  of  it." 

The  next  afternoon  occurred  the  first  walk 
under  the  new  arrangement.  Each  of  them 
took  a  book.  In  the  grounds  of  the  residence 
they  found  a  place  under  a  fragrant  bay-tree, 


!56  Stanford  Stories. 

and  she  made  him  be  serious  and  take  up  his 
work.  The  first  quarter  of  an  hour  she  called 
him  to  order  twice — first  for  trying  to  trap 
with  a  lariat  of  grass  an  inquisitive  gray  lizard 
spying  at  them  from  a  fence-rail;  second,  for 
enticing  into  conversation  the  huge  Danish 
hound,  whose  bark  is  so  much  worse  than  his 
bite,  and  who,  having  been  a  pup  with  the 
University,  knows  something  of  every  Stan 
ford  "case"  ever  developed  in  the  pleasant 
shade  of  his  domain.  After  fifteen  minutes  of 
impeccable  behavior,  Pellams  whispered: 
"Say—" 
"Silence!" 

"Well,  I'd  like  to  have  some  attention  paid 
me.  Call  me  down  just  to  show  that  you're 
alive." 

She  pointed  to  his  History  and  subsided  into 
her  English  Poets.  When  she  came  to  earth 
again,  the  sun  was  low  beyond  the  eucalyptus 
trees.  There  was  a  regular  sound  near  her 
which  she  realized  having  heard  for  some 
time  in  her  sub-consciousness.  She  peeped 
over  the  high-growing  root  between  them. 
The  man  whom  she  was  helping  slept  peace 
fully,  his  book  closed  and  his  mouth  open,  and 
only  the  suspicion  of  a  snore  stirring  the  quiet 
autumn  air. 

"I  shall  never  have  any  trouble  with  him!" 
thought  Katharine,  with  just  the  faintest  dis- 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        XS7 

content,  as  she  dropped  a  twig  on  his  face,  by 
way  of  waking  him  without  embarrassment. 

The  autumn  rains  came  and  the  dry,  sniffly 
dust  of  the  campus  lay  flat  under  the  quiet 
air;  the  clear,  fall  weather  that  is  mixed  in 
one's  mind  with  the  pungent  smell  of  tarweed 
in  the  pasture  lands,  and  with  long  exciting 
afternoon  practices,  hung  cool  over  the  land, 
and  still  Pellams  went  girling,  with  his  beau 
tiful  joke  on  the  college.  Katharine's  secret 
joke  on  him  had  succeeded  equally  well.  The 
woman-hater's  class  work  had  undergone  a 
transfiguration.  People  noticed  it.  At  the 
opening  of  the  term  he  had  put  Professor 
Leyne's  course  in  "Renaissance  Poets"  on  his 
schedule  card,  because  it  was  a  proclaimed 
snap  and  because  two  of  the  three  Rhos  who 
took  it  the  year  before  had  kept  their  set- 
papers.  Professor  Leyne  loved  to  draw 
covert  allusions  from  what  he  called  "the 
ocean  of  young  life  that  swells  around  us." 
One  day  he  threw  out  a  direct  allusion.  Stop 
ping  in  his  remarks  about  chivalry,  he  sunk 
his  voice  to  an  impressive,  confidential  tone, 
looking  almost  directly  at  the  impassive  Pel- 
lams  in  the  back  row. 

"And  I  think  sometimes,"  he  said,  "when  I 
see  the  youth  feeling  the  uplifting  earnestness 
of  first  love — when  I  see  it  taking  him  gently 
by  the  hand  and  saying  to  him  'my  son,  there 
are  higher  things';  when  I  see  him  putting  his 


!58  Stanford  Stories. 

spirit  with  new  zeal  to  the  tasks  that  are  laid 
before  him,  when  I  see  him  realizing  that  life 
is  indeed  serious  and  -its  end  the  fulfilment" — 
and  so  on  until  the  bell  rang,  while  the  sub 
ject  of  the  eulogy,  outwardly  calm,  grinned 
fiendishly  in  his  secret  soul,  for  only  himself, 
the  professor  and  one  other  knew  that  he  had 
scored  an  A  on  his  last  two  papers  as  against 
a  D  earlier  in  the  year.  The  professor  him 
self  did  not  know  that  these  same  papers  were 
a  good  part  Katharine  Graham,  who  had  sug 
gested  the  ideas  to  Pellams  and  had  then  stood 
over  him  while  he  put  them  into  his  own 
turgid  but  interesting  English. 

Similar  results  ensued  in  French,  which 
they  prepared  together,  and  he  so  endeared 
himself  to  the  History  professor  that  that 
worthy  expanded  to  the  point  of  a  hint  at  an 
entrance  to  the  seminary  the  next  semester. 
The  superior  Miss  Meiggs,  pondering  upon 
the  remarkable  change  in  her  classmate,  saw 
with  concern  this  renegade  disproving  an 
argument  with  which  she  had  enlivened  many 
a  Theta  Gamma  meeting.  She  never  guessed 
with  what  patience  Katharine  was  training 
his  wandering  attention.  She  was  not  pres 
ent  during  the  afternoons  of  real,  quiet  study 
which  were  forced  out  of  him  between 
luncheon  and  football  practice. 

By  the  time  their  contract,  renewed  from 
week  to  week,  had  been  operating  for  two 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.       J59 

months,  Pellams  began  to  wonder  just  where 
the  point  of  the  joke  came  in.  People  had 
become  used  to  the  condition.  The  House 
could  rely  on  him  and  his  singing,  and  girls 
came  oftener  than  ever  to  Sunday  supper. 
The  Knockery  took  his  affairs  as  an  accepted 
fact.  They  no  longer  had  any  new  jokes  on 
it.  Jimmy  Mason  grumbled  now  and  then 
because  his  chum  was  queening  "like  all  the 
rest  of  the  frat-men,"  and  their  jovial  expe 
ditions  to  Mayfield  were  over,  "because  she 
wouldn't  understand"  (most  conclusive 
proof!),  but  he  ended  by  taking  it  as  he  might 
have  taken  an  inequality  of  temper — as  a  flaw 
in  character  to  be  overlooked  in  a  friend. 
Then  again,  Pellams  found  it  positively  un 
canny  to  be  getting  on  so  well  in  his  work, 
an  uneasy  feeling  as  though  he  were  walking 
along  the  edge  of  a  steep  place.  As  for  the 
joke  itself,  he  could  laugh  over  it  with  Kath 
arine,  but  there  was  no  way  to  spring  it.  A 
josh  that  has  not  a  public  end  lacks  art.  He 
realized  that  the  idea  had  seemed  very  rich 
when  he  conceived  it  and  that  he  had  plunged 
into  it  without  considering  its  finish,  and  of 
course  an  impractical  girl  wouldn't  look  so 
far  ahead.  Now,  he  saw  that  it  had  ceased  to 
be  a  josh  at  all,  where  other  people  were  con 
cerned. 

When  he  came  to  the  thought  of  dropping 
it,  he  suspected  that  it  was  no  longer  a  josh 


l6°  Stanford  Stories. 

where  he  himself  was  concerned.  The  realiza 
tion  of  this  quite  stunned  him,  the  afternoon 
it  came  to  him.  They  were  sitting  below  the 
Sphinx,  at  the  back  of  the  Mausoleum,  and  the 
quail  were  calling  among  the  pines.  Katha 
rine  was  reading  to  him  from  one  of  his  text 
books.  He  heard  very  little  of  what  she  read. 
To  him  the  book  kept  repeating  that  she  had 
the  most  attractive  mouth  and  chin  he  had  ever 
noticed;  that  the  low-drawn  hair  on  her  fore 
head  was  made  to  be  smoothed  back,  very 
gently,  from  her  clear  skin.  The  conscious 
ness  that  he  could  not  give  up  these  study- 
afternoons  came  over  him  with  a  stab,  and  told 
him  that  he  had  not  been  listening  at  all  well 
lately;  that  this  was  why  he  could  not  re 
member  the  stuff  in  recitation  and  why  he  had 
not  dared  to  tell  her  his  recent  marks.  She 
trusted  him  so  thoroughly  now  that  she  did 
not  stop  him  so  often  when  he  talked,  instead 
of  working.  If  she  had  guessed  the  real  rea 
son  of  his  laziness,  she  would  have  been  hon 
estly  disappointed  in  him.  This  was  the 
tragedy  of  it.  He  could  never  let  her  suspect 
that  he  was  not  still  fooling  the  Rho  house. 
She  was  a  girl  entirely  without  sentimentality 
— *this  was  what  he  liked  in  her  at  first,  and 
now  it  was  his  overthrow.  If  she  should  so 
much  as  dream  that  his  feeling  toward  her  was 
anything  more  than  the  friendship  he  had  out 
lined  in  the  beginning,  she  would  shut  her 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        l61 

book  with  a  slap  and  declare  the  compact  at 
an  end.  He  must  keep  on  acting,  only  his 
audience  had  changed  and  the  people  he  had 
been  joking  with  were  now  behind  the  scenes, 
though  they  didn't  know  it.  So  he  would  put 
his  chin  in  his  hand  and  gaze  at  her  as  though 
the  peculiarities  of  the  Renaissance  Poets  were 
his  greatest  concern.  He  laughed,  too,  about 
the  joke  itself,  finding  a  sort  of  painful  relief  in 
double  entendre.  Sometimes  his  mind  wan 
dered,  and  when  Katharine  failed  to  reprove 
him,  as  in  the  earlier  days  of  the  compact,  he 
felt  as  though  he  had  betrayed  a  confidence. 
Once  they  had  forgotten  all  about  football 
practice,  and  it  frightened  him; but  she  seemed 
not  to  have  realized  the  gravity  of  the  thing, 
and  he  laughed  the  alarming  incident  away. 
During  lectures,  he  tried  to  reason  himself  out 
of  the  predicament.  It  was  entirely  possible 
that  this  feeling  toward  her  was  but  another 
instance  of  habit,  a  natural  affection  for  a 
chum,  with  some  subtle  influence  of  sex  com 
bining  to  frighten  him  into  thinking  it  more 
serious.  But  he  was  not  entirely  comforted. 

Crises  occur  properly  at  the  end  of  a  sem 
ester.  On  the  evening  of  Friday,  the  closing 
day,  Roble  gave  an  impromptu  dance.  Kath 
arine  made  Pellams  come;  it  would  be  final 
evidence  in  their  joke,  since  he  was  known  to 
dislike  dances.  He  agreed  to  attend,  adding  his 
own  emphasis  to  the  reason  as  stated.  Kath- 


162  Stanford  Stories. 

arine  filled  out  his  card  for  him,  allowing  him 
three  dances  with  herself.  The  evening  began 
in  misery  for  the  woman-hater,  and  ended  in 
perturbation  of  spirit.  There  were  girls, 
oceans  of  them,  and  not  one  of  them  had  any 
sense.  Katharine  was  different.  These  girls 
didn't  know  when  they  were  joshed,  and  they 
couldn't  josh  back.  They  were  an  uninterest 
ing  lot.  She  had  filled  his  card  with  them 
and  he  had  to  hunt  them  up  and  dredge  his 
head  for  conversation.  It  was  an  awful  bore. 
Katharine  was  the  only  girl  whom  he  had  ever 
seemed  able  to  talk  with  easily,  and  he  had 
only  three  little  dances  with  her.  He  was 
savage. 

During  the  third  dance,  he  was  floundering 
through  an  absent-minded  conversation  with  a 
Freshman  girl,  whose  eyelashes  were  pale 
pink,  when  Cap  Smith  glided  past  him,  waltz 
ing  with  Katharine.  They  looked  as  though 
they  were  having  a  very  good  time.  Pellams 
felt  that  Cap,  fine  fellow  as  he  was,  generally 
grew  too  familiar  with  girls.  He  noticed  with 
disapproval  the  man  Katharine  drew  for  the 
fourth  dance,  and  she  had  Cap  again  for  the 
fifth.  He  went  over  after  that  dance  and  asked 
for  her  program.  Cap  was  down  for  two 
more  dances.  Pellams  gave  her  back  her  card. 
He  laughed  a  joking  sentence  on  another  sub 
ject,  then  he  slipped  down  stairs  and  blundered 
out  into  the  rainy  night  in  a  towering  rage 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.       l63 

at  Katharine,  at  Smith,  most  of  all  at  himself 
for  being  a  certain  Thing. 

Jimmy  Mason  had  not  attended  the  Roble 
dance.  Instead,  he  sat  at  his  table  in  the 
Knockery,  going  over  his  accounts  as  laundry 
agent.  He  was  deep  in  these  end-of-semester 
figures  when  Pellams  burst  in  at  the  window, 
like  a  storm-driven  creature.  People  never 
stand  on  ceremony  at  the  Knockery.  It  is  the 
corner  room  on  the  ground  floor.  The  place 
has  always  been  the  Knockery  ever  since 
Mason  roomed  there,  just  as  the  big  room  over 
the  old  dining-hall  will  be  the  "Bull-pen"  for 
ever.  It  is  the  universal  avenue  after  the  lights 
are  out,  and  the  doors  locked.  You  open  the 
window  as  gently  as  you  can  and  slide  in.  If 
the  tenants  are  in  bed,  you  get  through  into 
the  hall  on  tiptoe,  if  possible;  if  awake,  you 
stop  and  chat  a  bit  by  the  way  of  courtesy;  no 
one  ever  has  to  study  in  this  enchanted  bower. 
Moreover,  if  you  do  not  live  in  the  Hall,  if  you 
are  an  Alumnus  visitor  from  town,  if  there 
are  girls  at  your  frat-house,  or  if  you  dwell  off 
the  campus  and  are  belated,  there  are  extra 
blankets  under  the  lounge  in  the  corner.  Make 
up  your  own  bed  and  turn  in,  without  waking 
the  sleepers.  You  are  not  crowding  anybody. 
Once  a  whole  baseball  team,  with  the  help 
of  two  extra  mattresses,  slept  comfortably  in 
the  Knockery — but  that  is  history. 

When  Pellams  slammed  in  and  flopped  dis- 


l64  Stanford  Stories. 

consolately  into  a  chair,  Mason  looked  up, 
knowing  that  there  was  trouble  somewhere. 

"What  is  it?"  he  asked.  No  answer.  Jimmy 
rose,  locked  the  door  and  closed  the  ventila 
tor.  Then  he  disposed  himself  on  the  lounge. 

"Tell  your  dad.    Is  it  the  girl?" 

Pellams's  affirmative  was  put  in  language 
unrepeatable  in  a  book  for  young  persons. 

"Something  gone  wrong?" 

"Yes,"  etc. 

Jimmy  wished  to  offer  consolation.  "Can  I 
do  anything?" 

"Yes,"  growled  the  man  in  a  dress  suit. 
"You  can  give  me  a  sweater  and  take  me  to 
Mayfield!" 

Now  Jimmy  was  a  true  friend.  He  would 
have  gone  anywhere  for  Pellams. 

When  the  dance  music  at  Roble  had  ceased, 
and  the  quiet  of  the  December  night  was 
broken  by  only  the  patter  of  raindrops  and 
the  sound  of  singing  in  the  Mayfield  distance, 
punctuated  by  sharp  whoops,  Jimmy  had  got 
Pellams  back  to  the  Knockery  pretty  well  con 
soled.  It  might  not  have  made  much  differ 
ence  just  then,  even  if  the  lover  could  have 
known  that  over  in  darkened  Roble,  Kathar 
ine  Graham,  who  did  not  approve  of  love 
affairs,  lay  crying  herself  to  sleep. 

Pellams  rose  late  next  day,  and  ate  his  lunch 
mournfully  at  the  House.  He  was  in  an  ex 
aggerated  state  of  repentance  and  resolve. 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        l6S 

After  luncheon  he  made  a  sorrowful  pilgrim 
age  to  the  Quad.  Here  he  learned  that  he 
had  lost  five  hours  and  that  the  Glee  Club 
would  tour  the  South  without  him. 

Chastened  in  spirit,  he  asked  for  Katharine 
at  Roble.  She  had  gone  to  Mrs.  Stillwell's  on 
the  Row.  He  went  again  at  night,  calling  late 
that  she  might  have  her  packing  finished  for 
the  morning  steamer. 

By  diplomacy,  arranged  beforehand  with  the 
door-girl,  he  got  her  downstairs.  There  was 
only  a  trace  of  reserve  in  her  manner  when  she 
told  him  that  she  had  all  her  packing  yet  to 
do,  and  that  she  couldn't  walk  about  the  Quad 
even  once;  there  was  more  than  a  trace  of 
embarrassment  about  him  when  he  pleaded 
something  very  important. 

"Perhaps  I  know  what  it  is,"  said  she. 

"More  than  likely  you  don't,"  he  persisted; 
"anyhow,  I  deserve  a  chance  to  explain." 

Katharine  went  down  the  steps  with  him. 

"Well?"  she  said,  on  the  walk  outside. 

"What  do  you  think  I  want  to  say?"  He 
was  not  so  brave  now. 

"The  same  thing  that  I  have  in  my  mind, 
that  our  little  arrangement  \vould  better  end. 
I  have  got  my  very  first  condition  through 
wasting  time  on  a  foolish  josh,  and  I  don't  be 
lieve  you've  been  doing  good  work  lately." 

"They  gave  me  two  of  'em." 


166  Stanford  Stories. 

"Indeed?  Then  Florence  Meiggs  was  right, 
wasn't  she?" 

"Dead  right." 

Silence  for  awhile,  then  she  said:  "But  you 
mustn't  blame  me.  I  did  my  best,  and  if  we 
both  failed  it's  proof  positive  that  it  has  to 
end." 

Another  pause,  with  the  whirr  of  distant 
machinery  breaking  the  stillness.  No  speech 
on  either  side  until  Pellams  felt  that  he  must 
say  something  or  the  blood  in  his  throat  would 
choke  him. 

"Do — don't  you  really  know  what  I  wanted 
you  out  here  for?" 

"Perhaps  to  insult  me  further.  Pellams!" 
impetuously,  "why  did  you  do  it?" 

"What?  flunk?" 

"No.    Cut  those  dances." 

"You  ought  to  know!" 

"Yes ;  I  do  know,  and  your  wanting  to  go  to 
Mayfield  was  a  good,  gentlemanly  excuse,  and 
I  ought  to  accept  it,  I  suppose.  Of  course,  it 
shouldn't  make  any  difference  to  me;  you  have 
humiliated  me  enough  already,  but  you  might 
have  considered  the  other  girls." 

"Yes,  and  you  are  blaming  me  for  cutting 
down  there  when  you  and  Cap  Smith  were 
floating  around " 

"You  will  please  leave  Mr.  Smith  out  of  the 
conversation;"  she  turned  toward  the  Hall.  "I 
have  to  go  in,  the  shades  are  down  already." 


For  the  Sake  of  Argument.        l6? 

Pellams'  courage  came  up  with  a  flash.  By 
blind  instinct,  he  reached  out  and  caught  her 
hand.  She  did  not  struggle,  though  the  mo 
ment  he  released  his  pressure  she  drew  her 
hand  away,  and  quickened  her  pace.  He  fol 
lowed  close,  and  she  turned  upon  him. 

''This  is  what  I  might  have  expected  when 
I  cheapened  myself  with  you!  Will  you  let 
me  go  in?" 

"Not  until  I  have  said  what  I  came  to  say; 
Katharine,  can't  you — can't  you  guess  it?  Oh, 
I  know — Kathie,  you  must  have  seen  it — you 
know  why  I  cut  the  dance — you  know" — and 
again  words  failed  him  and  he  reached  for 
her  hand. 

But  she  put  him  off  this  time.  "I  am  sorry 
to  spoil  such  a  beautiful  piece  of  acting;  but 
our  arrangement  is  going  to  end,  and  this  is 
a  worn-out  joke." 

They  had  come  by  now  to  the  corner  of 
Roble,  where  it  is  indiscreet  to  talk  over  pri 
vate  affairs,  and  neither  said  anything  until 
they  reached  and  mounted  the  steps  into  the 
shadow  of  the  porch.  Then  she  said : 

"After  all,  since  it  is  over,  I  won't  be  un 
kind.  Good-bye.  We've  had  a  pleasant  se 
mester,  haven't  we?"  and  this  time  she  gave 
him  her  hand. 

A  girl  raised  one  of  the  hallway  curtains 
just  then.  The  sudden  flash  of  light  came 
upon  Katharine  where  she  stood  with  her  hand 


168  Stanford  Stories. 

in  Pellams'.  She  had  meant  that  look,  that 
softening  of  the  eyes,  that  little  quiver  of  the 
mouth,  for  darkness  and  concealment,  and  he 
caught  it  all  before  she  could  blot  it  out  with 
a  smile. 

And,  having  argued  to  a  conclusion,  it  mat 
tered  not  to  either  that  Miss  Meiggs  stood 
looking  out  at  them  with  supreme  contempt. 


AN  ALUMNI    DINNER. 


An   Alumni   Dinner. 

"And    it's    we    who    have    to    rustle 
In    the    cold,    cold    world  1" 

Dr.  Williamson's  landlady  would  not  listen 
any  further.  She  stood  on  the  threshold  of 
her  lodger's  combination  of  bedroom  and  of 
fice  and  said,  with  an  offensively  clear  enun 
ciation: 

"You  haven't  any  patients,  and  no  more 
have  I  any  longer,  and  I  want  that  money  to 
morrow  or  I  rent  the  room." 

The  door  closed. 

Williamson  listened  to  her  footsteps,  as 
hard  and  uncompromising  as  her  voice,  and 
when  they  had  ceased  he  got  up  from  his 
chair,  a  despairing  soul.  After  all,  this  was 
the  rope's  end.  He  would  have  to  own  up  to  a 
failure. 

If  Williamson  had  been  a  man  of  more 
force  he  would  not  have  acknowledged  so 
much,  perhaps;  but  he  had  been  conscien 
tious  and  faithful  to  the  limit  of  his  under 
standing,  patient  to  the  verge  of  philosophy, 
and  the  result  discouraged  him. 

He  drew  out  his  last  clean  collar  and  put  it 
171 


*72  Stanford  Stories. 

on,  with  the  vague  idea  of  going  somewhere 
and  doing  something — what,  he  could  not 
have  told.  His  eyes  fell  on  a  framed  docu 
ment  hanging  near  his  mirror,  a  small  but 
ornate  instrument,  setting  forth  that  the  Fac 
ulty  and  Trustees  of  the  Leland  Stanford 
Junior  University,  by  virtue  of  the  authority 
in  them  vested,  etc.,  conferred  the  degree  of 
Bachelor  of  Arts  in  Chemistry  on  Philip 
Howard  Williamson. 

His  thoughts  turned  back  toward  a  morn 
ing  over  four  years  gone,  when  he  walked 
down  the  platform  bearing  that  "last  of  his 
childhood's  toys,"  and  in  imagination  P.  H. 
Williamson,  M.  D.,  held  conversation  with 
Philip  Howard  Williamson,  A.  B. 

Williamson,  A.  B.,  standing  just  the  other 
side  of  the  mirror,  spoke  and  said: 

"It  looks  as  though  you  were  up  against 

it." 

Williamson,  M.  D.,  arranging  his  tie  so  as 
to  hide  his  soiled  shirt,  answered: 

"I  am  up  against  it.    And  it's  your  fault." 

Williamson,  A.  B.,  did  not  seem  to  see  it. 
But  he  was  a  conceited  creature,  anyway. 

"It's  more  than  half  your  fault,"  went  on 
the  man  on  the  real  side  of  the  mirror.  "You 
dug  and  worked,  and  you  thought  that  if  you 
only  kept  ahead  of  your  class  in  Physiology 
you  had  a  clean  card  to  success.  How  many 
fellows  did  you  know  in  college?" 


An  Alumni  Dinner.  *73 

"Some.  I  never  went  in  for  being  popular. 
There  were  Trueman,  and  Miller,  and  Rod 
ney — " 

"And  how  many  of  them  were  of  the  sort 
to  help  you?  Trueman,  without  family  or 
brains,  and  Miller,  who  lived  in  the  East,  and 
little  Rod—" 

"They  were  the  best  I  could  meet.  They 
were  the  only  ones  who  understood  that  I 
really  wanted  people.  No  one  understood 
how  I  loved  the  college  and  wanted  to  be  in 
things.  I  wasn't  good  at  telling;  and  besides, 
I  had  my  work  to  do.  They  knew  the  way  I 
used  to  look  across  the  campus  on  Spring 
nights—" 

Williamson,  M.  D.,  checked  him  at  this 
point.  That  impractical  creature  thought 
that  they  were  talking  of  friendship,  when  it 
was  only  a  question  of  Pull.  He  conveyed 
that  point  to  the  Bachelor. 

"Why  didn't  you  find  some  friends  who 
would  be  of  use  to  Me?"  he  asked,  savagely. 
"While  you  were  following  out  sutures  and 
involuntary  reactions,  what  was  Marshall  do 
ing?  Running  for  class  president  and  mak 
ing  the  Mandolin  Club  and  getting  ac 
quainted  with  people  of  some  use  to  him.  He 
isn't  one-two-six  with  me  for  ability  and 
never  was;  but  he  has  patients  to  give  away, 
and  I — 

Williamson,  A.  B.,  came  to  bat. 


*74  Stanford  Stories. 

"You  do  mightily  well  to  reproach  me  with 
all  this.  How  have  you  done  in  making 
friends?  Did  you  work  up  any  connections 
at  Columbia  those  three  years?  Have  you 
tried  to  find  anyone  here  in  town?  What 
friends  have  you  except  Stanford  men?  What 
have  you  done  for  yourself,  anyway?" 

The  other  weakly  quoted  what  the  Head 
Demonstrator  had  said  of  his  surgery. 

Williamson,  A.  B.,  held  him  to  the  point: 
"I  also  was  called  the  keenest  student  of  my 
time,"  said  he;  "but  it  isn't  bringing  you  pa 
tients." 

The  M.  D.  broke  sullenly  away,  leaving  the 
A.  B.  frowning  back  of  the  mirror.  These 
dead  selves  are  so  crude!  He  ended  the  in 
terview  by  slamming  out  of  the  house. 

For  the  twentieth  time  that  week  he  cast 
up  accounts  with  himself,  as  the  electric  car 
sped  toward  civilization.  Assets,  one  dollar 
and  five  cents,  just  reduced  by  a  grinding 
monopoly  from  a  dollar-ten;  liabilities,  a 
laundry  bill  and  six  weeks'  rent.  Truly,  a 
squalid  failure.  If  he  could  only  hold  out  a 
little  longer!  There  was  in  sight  a  situation  as 
consulting  physician  to  a  lodge  in  his  father's 
Order,  which  would  mean  a  living  at  least. 
He  had  the  promise  of  it  in  a  month's  time. 
A  loan  of  twenty-five  dollars  now  would  save 
him,  but  no  good  angel  occurred  to  him, 


An  Alumni  Dinner.  X7S 

think  as  he  might,  and  he  had  nothing  he 
could  afford  to  pawn. 

Troubled  in  spirit,  he  sauntered  listlessly 
up  Post  street  from  Kearny.  The  mid-day 
rain  had  not  yet  dried  from  the  pavements, 
and  the  air  was  clear  and  fresh.  Against  the 
last  of  a  January  sunset,  the  tops  of  the  city 
were  growing  indistinct.  The  personnel  of 
the  crowd  on  the  streets  had  changed;  the 
promenaders  and  the  cocktail-route  proces 
sion  had  dwindled  to  a  few  stragglers.  There 
was  less  of  a  press  now,  and  most  of  the  peo 
ple  were  of  the  class  that  work  until  six,  be 
lated  bookkeepers  and  girls  from  shops  and 
sewing  rooms.  He  watched  these  toilers  with 
a  vague  feeling  of  envy;  he  dragged  the  feel 
ing  to  the  light  and  found  that  he  was  covet 
ing  the  day's  work  just  passed.  What  would 
not  he  have  given  to  be  tired  at  the  end  of  a 
day  of  profitable  toil?  It  was  the  hour  when 
comfortable  people  sit  down  to  dinner. 

In  front  of  an  art  store  he  saw  Lincoln, 
the  Chronicle  man,  idly  studying  the  pictures. 
Williamson  had  known  him  as  well  as  he  had 
known  any  man  at  Palo  Alto,  but  he  walked 
by  without  a  word,  feeling  in  no  mood  for 
companionship.  A  few  steps  further  he 
turned,  and  went  back  and  stood  behind  his 
friend. 

"Hello,  Phil!"  said  Lincoln,  in  cheery  sur- 


176  Stanford  Stories. 

prise.  "Well,  you  are  a  stranger!  Been  keep 
ing  pretty  close  to  your  office,  haven't  you?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Williamson,  without  go 
ing  into  particulars. 

"I  haven't  happened  to  get  a  detail  out  in 
your  direction  and  my  health  has  been  unfor 
tunately  good,  so  I  haven't  seen  you  for 
moons,  not  since  the  night  at  the  Zink,  last 
Thanksgiving." 

"You  newspaper  men  see  more  of  the  fel 
lows  than  a  man  in  my  profession  can  hope 
to  do,"  said  the  physician.  "It  isn't  ethics 
for  me  to  hunt  them  up,  you  know." 

"How  is  the  practice,  so  far?" 

"Well,"  answered  Williamson,  hiding  the 
bitterness  of  it  with  a  laugh;  "the  practice  is 
about  all  I  have  got  out  of  it." 

"Not  so  bad  as  that,  I'll  bet,"  protested 
Lincoln.  "Are  you  going  down  for  Com 
mencement,  or  the  Ball,  or  anything?" 

"No,  I  shan't  be  able  to  get  down,"  an 
swered  the  other,  turning  in  his  fingers  the 
lonely  dollar  in  his  pocket.  "That's  the  worst 
of  the  medical  profession,"  he  added,  equiv 
ocally. 

His  thoughts  came  fast  as  they  stood  there 
in  the  fading  daylight  before  the  picture- 
shop.  It  was  entirely  probable  that  Lincoln 
would  lend  him  the  money  he  needed,  and 
would  lend  it  gladly.  Their  college  friendship 
had  been  sincere,  and  a  few  years  do  not 


An  Alumni  Dinner.  '77 

change  a  thing  like  that.  He  knew  that  the 
man  had  a  good  position  on  the  Chronicle  and 
that  he  saved  a  large  portion  of  his  money — 
he  had  been  economical  at  the  University. 
Fortune  could  never  smile  upon  Lincoln  suf 
ficiently  to  work  any  material  change  in  his 
dress;  he  had  always  looked  like  a  pauper;  to 
day,  poverty  showed  in  the  journalist  rather 
than  in  the  carefully-dressed  physician. 

Williamson's  heart  grew  lighter.  This 
Stanford  man,  rising  before  him  in  his  hour 
of  desperation,  should  tide  him  over  his  tem 
porary  trouble.  Of  all  the  men  at  the  Uni 
versity  there  had  been  none  who  had  spoken 
so  often  and  so  sincerely  of  the  Stanford 
spirit  as  Lincoln.  Here  was  a  chance  to  put 
it  to  a  test.  He  knew  his  man.  Williamson 
felt  himself  filled  with  a  faith  in  Divine  Provi 
dence. 

But  it  was  not  easy  to  ask  the  loan.  To 
suggest  such  a  thing  is  less  difficult  to  some 
people  than  to  others.  To  Williamson  it  was 
anything  but  a  simple  thing.  He  could  never 
broach  the  subject  there  on  the  sidewalk. 
The  matter  must  be  led  up  to  in  some  way;  to 
brace  in  cold  blood  was  impossible.  He 
moved  his  fingers  in  nervous  irresolution,  and 
the  dollar  touched  them  significantly. 

"Say,  Lew,  let's  not  stand  here  all  night; 
come  to  dinner  with  me,  can't  you?  We'll 


J78  Stanford  Stories. 

have  a  good  Alumni  chat;  we  don't  bump  into 
each  other  very  often." 

He  felt  horribly  hypocritical,  yet  this  was 
the  only  way. 

"You  haven't  had  dinner,  have  you?"  he 
went  on,  when  Lincoln  hesitated  a  bit. 

"No.  I'll  be  glad  to,  thank  you,  Phil. 
Where  do  you  go?" 

"Let's  try  Sanguinetti's  for  the  fun  of  the 
thing.  We  can  talk  down,  there,  and  it  won't 
break  us,  either." 

They  found  a  corner  table  in  the  restaurant. 
The  room  wore  the  quiet  look  of  Monday 
evening,  the  calm  that  follows  the  storm  of 
Sunday,  when  the  place  rocks  with  post-picnic 
revelry.  A  squat  negro,  perched  on  the  edge 
of  a  serving-table  by  the  wall,  sang  vocifer 
ously  to  a  resonant  banjo.  Now  and  then  a 
party  of  swarthy  Latins  joined  in  mildly  when 
the  selections  incurred  their  favor. 

The  two  college  men  found  it  easy  chat 
ting.  Williamson's  dollar  had  brought  a  very 
good  dinner,  particularly  the  chicken  and  the 
tortillas ;  the  claret  was  abundant  and  not  half 
bad  when  jollied  with  seltzer.  He  was  trust 
ing  to  Lincoln  for  tobacco. 

Still  the  physician  could  not  bring  himself 
to  the  point  toward  which  the  dinner  was  in 
tended  to  smooth  the  road.  The  "Dago  red" 
had  mellowed  them  both  and  they  talked  mer 
rily  of  the  days  at  Palo  Alto,  bringing  up  one 


An  Alumni  Dinner.  *79 

good  memory  after  another,  drifting  grad 
ually  to  an  exchange  of  Alumni  personals  of 
which  the  newspaper  man  furnished  the  larger 
part.  They  talked  of  the  men  their  young 
University  had  sent  into  the  distant  parts  of 
the  world,  youngsters  running  mines  in  the 
Antipodes,  with  fat  salaries  to  keep  up  their 
courage;  of  the  little  Stanford  colony  in  West 
ern  Australia  and  the  Pioneers  in  China. 
There  were  a  good  many  for  so  new  a  col 
lege.  Then  there  were  the  commonplaces 
who  were  doing  well  at  home.  The  thought 
of  bringing  the  serious  side  of  his  own  case 
into  this  chat  gave  Williamson  a  chill.  It 
was  a  foolish  bit  of  pride,  but  it  was  getting 
harder  every  minute  to  down  it.  He  deftly 
turned  the  subject  his  way. 

"It  isn't  all  prosperity,  though.  I've 
noticed  that  some  of  them  seem  to  be  up 
against  it  lately — just  hard  luck  stories,  I 
suppose.  There's  Rawdon,  for  example." 

Lincoln  leaned  back  comfortably  in  his 
chair. 

"Let  me  tell  you  a  case  that  has  come  under 
my  notice  lately  and  see  what  you  think  of  it," 
he  said.  "I  won't  mention  names,  but  it's 
about  a  man  we  both  knew  at  College.  He 
had  a  place  on  the  paper,  the  Chronicle,  and 
during  the  political  season  did  very  well;  after 
that  there  came  a  slump  and  the  city  editor 
let  him  out;  the  other  papers  had  no  room 


l8°  Stanford  Stories. 

for  him,  of  course — they  were  dropping  men 
— and  he  couldn't  get  a  thing  of  any  sort  to 
do,  though  he  rustled  hard.  You  know  Coles 
and  Harrison,  the  boys  call  them  the  Stanford 
Employment  Bureau,  they  have  found  quite  a 
number  of  places  for  the  fellows ;  but  this  par 
ticular  man  was  evidently  up  against  it,  and 
there  wasn't  the  smallest  symptom  of  a  job. 
He  managed  to  get  something  in  the  Sunday 
supps,  but  barely  enough  to  keep  him  alive, 
and  nothing  certain.  Meanwhile  he  pawned 
his  things  gradually  and  grew  pretty  well  dis 
couraged.  I  remember  I  heard  him  say  once, 
and  his  laugh  covered  more  than  I  guessed  at 
the  time,  that  Jewish  holidays  ought  to  be 
prohibited  by  state  law,  since  closed  doors 
under  the  three  balls  meant  some  Stanford 
man's  going  hungry.  He  got  down  to  bed 
rock  and  finally  reached  the  point  where  he 
had  gone  without  three  successive  meals. 
Pretty  rough,  wasn't  it?" 

"I  should  say  so,"  answered  Williamson. 
His  own  distress  was  trivial  beside  a  trouble 
like  this. 

Lincoln  fed  the  alcohol  flame  burning 
around  the  omelet  just  brought  them. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  he  went  on,  "that  there 
is  a  case  in  which  a  man  is  justified  in  asking 
help;  he  ought  to  ask  it  long  before  he  gets 
to  such  a  pass  as  that;  if  he  lets  his  pride  pre 
vent  him  it's  his  own  fault.  We  certainlv 


An  Alumni  Dinner.  lgl 

have  carried  away  from  the  University  some 
thing  of  the  spirit  we  learned  there.  I  know 
for  my  part  that  such  a  man  has  a  claim  on 
whatever  help  I  can  give  him,  and  as  a  Stan 
ford  man  he  has  a  right  to  seek  it.  Don't  you 
agree  with  me?" 

Williamson  had  been  waiting  through  the 
course  of  the  dinner  for  a  chance  to  advance 
an  identical  theory.  He  could  not  have  hoped 
for  a  better  opening. 

"Indeed  I  do,"  he  said.  "You  have  the  old 
Stanford  spirit  as  strong  as  ever,  haven't  you, 
Lew?  Now  I  want  to  tell  you  a  story." 

At  a  table  near  them  a  woman  who  looked 
as  though  she  had  a  history,  one  that  dated 
far  back  at  that,  began  to  sing — one  of  those 
ballads  about  home  and  the  wandering  boy. 
The  two  men  tipped  back  in  their  chairs  and 
listened  to  the  song.  Williamson  was  plan 
ning  what  he  should  say  as  soon  as  it  was 
ended.  It  would  be  better  to  tell  the  whole 
thing. 

During  the  applause  that  followed,  Lincoln 
dropped  his  cigarette  into  his  coffee  cup  and 
started  to  speak.  Williamson,  unwilling  that 
another  subject  should  follow  the  last  words 
they  had  exchanged,  interrupted  him. 

"I  have  a  story,  too,  Lew,  and  it's  about 
myself.  I  don't  doubt  this  is  rather  a  sur 
prise  to  you,"  he  went  on,  noticing  the  look 
on  the  other's  face,  "although  you  know  the 


182  Stanford  Stories. 

way  of  the  young  physician  is  hard.  The  fact 
is,  I  have  got  to  the  point  where  I  must  get  a 
little  temporary  lift  or  give  up  the  struggle 
for  a  while,  and  I  can't  bear  the  thought  of 
that." 

Then  he  went  on  swiftly,  ignoring  his 
friend's  attempts  at  interruption,  until  he  had 
told  the  whole  story  of  his  uphill  work  and  his 
defeat. 

"You  asked  me  just  now,  Lew,  if  I  didn't 
think  one  Stanford  man  should  help  another 
who  really  needed  help,  if  he  could.  I  put  up 
my  last  coin  for  an  opportunity  to  ask  you 
the  same  question,  but  with  a  different  pur 
pose." 

Lincoln's  eyes  were  moist  as  he  reached 
across  the  table  and  grasped  Williamson's 
hand. 

"I  think  you  know  me  well  enough,  old 
man,  to  know  my  answer  to  that  question. 
But  you  did  not  let  me  finish  my  story.  You 
see,  I — er — I'm  the  man  I  was  telling  you 
about." 


BOGGS' 
ELECTION   FEED. 


Boggs'  Election  Feed. 

DO 


"Oh   think   what   anxious   moments   pass   between 
The    birth    of    plots    and    their    last    fatal    periods!" 

ADDISON. 

It  would  never  have  happened  if  Boggs 
hadn't  dropped  in  on  Jimmy  Mason  and  Pell- 
ams  when  they  were  cramming  for  an  ex 
amination,  for,  although  Pellams  had  long 
"kept  an  axe"  for  Boggs,  he  needed  the  in 
spiration  of  the  moment  to  swing  it  like  this. 
It  was  always  so  with  Pellams'  best  things. 

The  inspiration  in  this  case  came  one  even 
ing  when  he  and  Jimmy  were  doing  genuine 
work.  People  who  have  seen  it  declare  that 
the  spectacle  of  Mason  cramming  for  an  ex 
amination  was  one  of  the  show  sights  of  the 
University.  He  generally  let  things  go  until 
the  last  day  of  grace;  then  with  sundry 
fellow-victims  and  a  motley  collection  of 
notes,  syllabi,  books,  reports — anything  on 
the  subject — gathered  on  the  green  cloth  of 
his  table,  he  would  start  in.  Raps  might  come 
from  time  to  time  on  the  locked  door;  Jimmy 
would  hold  up  a  warning  finger  for  silence, 
while  the  outsider  shot  through  the  keyhole 


186  Stanford  Stories. 

such  remarks  as  "Jimmy  Mason,  loosen  up. 
You've  mixed  my  clothes  again;"  or,  "Hi, 
Jimmy!  give  me  the  markings ;"  or,  possibly, 
hurled  a  mass  of  unrepeatable  terms  at  the 
unresponsive  door.  Perhaps  his  roommate, 
Marion,  would  come  in  when  the  lights  went 
out;  then  Jimmy  would  call  a  breathing-spell, 
during  which,  while  "Nosey"  went  to  bed 
behind  the  portieres,  he  drew  his  lamp  from 
its  hiding-place  and  made  strong  coffee  in  the 
coffee-pot  or  chafing-dish,  whichever  had 
been  washed  the  more  recently.  Somewhere 
in  the  small  hours  the  seminary  would  ad 
journ  with  "international  complications," 
"tendencies  of  the  age,"  "sub-head  B,"  heat 
ing  their  brains.  Out  of  bed  at  seven  for  a 
final  swift  review  of  the  subject,  Mason  would 
sail  over  to  class  with  a  great  unbreakfasted 
hollow  beneath  his  sweater,  to  pass  freely  and 
gloriously,  and  to  forget  the  whole  mess  by 
the  time  he  had  finished  his  afternoon  nap. 

And  to  see  Jimmy  in  the  seminary  itself! 
How  masterfully  he  kept  track  of  headings, 
sub-headings  and  modifying  circumstances! 
How  he  could  scent  at  a  day's  distance  the 
things  which  the  professor  was  going  to  ask, 
as  well  as  those  he  was  going  to  skip !  When 
he  said,  "Now,  old  Morton  is  heavy  on  this," 
the  seminary  digested  the  subject  in  all  its 
bearings  and  ramifications ;  and  when  he  said, 
"No  use  looking  that  up,"  they  skipped  the 


Boggs'  Election  Feed.  l87 

heading,  though  pages  of  syllabi  were 
slighted  thereby.  When  the  wandering  mind 
of  Pellams  slid  off  the  work,  it  was  beautiful 
to  see  Jimmy  lead  it  back  with  a  word  and  a 
look;  when  he  sent  some  sleepy  Senior  to  bed 
with  the  remark,  "You're  no  more  good. 
Sleep  it  off  and  be  fresh  to-morrow,"  Jimmy 
touched  the  sublime. 

The  glory  of  it  all  was  that  upper-classmen 
as  well  as  Freshmen  put  themselves  absolute 
ly  under  the  Sophomore's  rule  when  it  was  a 
question  of  an  examination.  Thus  does  the 
elective  system  level  all  ranks  and  give  genius 
opportunity. 

On  the  night  that  Boggs  dropped  in  on 
them,  Jimmy  and  Pellams  were  cramming 
alone.  Two  seniors  who  were  usually  in  the 
group  had  gone  somewhere  to  mix  up  in  a 
complication  over  Student-Body  treasurer. 
A  Junior  seldom  out  of  line  was  a  candidate 
for  the  Executive  Committee;  he  had  put  his 
head  in  at  the  door  to  say,  "Dead  sorry,  fel 
lows,  but  can't  get  in  it,"  and  then  gone  down 
to  Palo  Alto  to  make  himself  agreeable  to  a 
dig  girl  who  had  "influence."  The  popularity 
of  some  people  waxes  strangely  the  latter  part 
of  April.  A  Freshman  who  was  taking 
the  course  when  he  shouldn't  and  who  stood 
on  the  dizzy  brink  of  flunking  it,  had  gone  off 
with  a  Junior  who  wanted  to  stand  well  with 
certain  Freshmen  of  importance,  and  who  had 


188  Stanford  Stories. 

overjoyed  the  youngster  with  an  invitation 
to  Mayfield,  an  event  which  made  flunking 
clear  out  of  the  University  a  thing  of  small 
moment  to  the  Freshman's  mind. 

Pellams  alone  showed  up.  He  was  not  in 
politics;  further,  he  knew  the  value  to  himself 
of  these  evenings  with  Jimmy;  not  that  the 
syllabi  made  much  impression  on  him,  but  he 
carried  enough  to  class  next  day  to  shadow 
forth  an  apparent  knowledge  of  the  subject. 
This  he  supplemented  with  two  or  three  orig 
inal  reflections  that  interested  the  instructor 
and  slipped  him  through.  It  was  these  flashes 
of  intelligence  that  made  him  worth  the  labor 
to  Mason.  Sometimes  he  could  set  the  whole 
seminary  right  on  an  obscure  phrase;  this 
made  up  for  an  hour  of  imperfect  attention. 

To-night  the  two  men  were  hard  at  it. 
They  sat  at  opposite  sides  of  the  table,  the 
electric  drop-light  illuminating  the  papers  be 
tween  them. 

"Say,"  said  Pellams,  "Bob  Duncan's  the 
luckiest  baby  in  the  bunch.  He  doesn't  know 
as  much  about  this  course  as  I  do,  and  he's 
got  appendicitis,  the  doctor  says — no  fake." 

"Now,  Pellams,"  said  Mason  seriously, 
"you  have  to  remember  Cromwell.  He  did 
all  this  in  sub-headings  four  to  eleven. 
You've  placed  him,  haven't  you?" 

"The  guy  that  made  them  keep  the  powder 
dry?" 


Boggs'  Election  Feed.  l89 

"The  minister  Cromwell;  you  remember 
him — the  one  who  was  bald." 

Jimmy  had  learned  that  Pellams  needed  a 
concrete  peg  on  which  to  hang  his  memories. 

"Oh,  sure,  I've  got  him;  that  throw-away- 
ambition  boy.  Hadn't  a  hair  between  him 
and  heaven." 

A  knock  came  at  the  door. 

"That's  it.    Sh— sh!" 

"Let  me  in,  Jimmy."     The  room  was  still. 

"I  know  you  and  Pellams  are  digging.  I 
won't  say  a  word  to  either  of  you,  only  give 
me  a  smoke." 

"Haven't  any,"  said  Jimmy,  rapidly  trans 
ferring  a  sack  of  Durham  and  a  package  of 
papers  from  the  table. 

"Well,  let  me  in,  anyway.  I  want  to  read 
by  your  lamp.  Oh,  say,  open  up!" 

"It's  Boggs.  If  we  don't  let  him  in  he'll 
stand  and  plead  in  outer  darkness  all  night." 

The  door  rattled.  Jimmy  howled  "Ye-e-es!" 
in  a  tone  of  provoked  affirmative,  and  Boggs 
was  opened  unto. 

It  would  be  hard  to  tell  in  what  way  Boggs 
did  not  block  the  seminary.  He  found  the 
tobacco  by  invading  Jimmy's  sacred  drawer 
during  an  absorbing  discussion  on  land  ten 
ure;  then  he  rolled  and  consumed  exactly 
fourteen  cigarettes.  Pellams  kept  count  out 
of  the  corner  of  his  eye.  Boggs  was  making 
smoke  in  the  sunshine  of  free  tobacco.  He 


X9Q  Stanford  Stories. 

put  his  feet  on  Mason's  laundry  packages, 
freshly  stacked  in  the  corner.  He  broke  his 
word  by  talking  politics  steadily,  and  finally, 
when  he  drew  out  of  the  room  just  ahead  of 
ten-thirty  lights,  a  double  sigh  of  relief  went 
up  from  the  crammers. 

"That  article  needs  fixing,"  said  Pellams, 
meditatively,  as  Jimmy  got  out  the  chafing- 
dish  and  prepared  the  black  coffee  that  makes 
additional  pages  of  syllabi  possible  before 
sleep  comes. 

"I  wonder,"  said  Jimmy,  "if  he  ever  bought 
an  ounce  of  tobacco  since  he  came  here.  He's 
smoked  mine  every  time  he  could  find  it  since 
I've  been  in  college.  I  remember,"  here  Jim 
my  stopped  to  laugh,  "that  when  I  was  a 
Freshmen — you'll  bear  witness  I  was  a  fresh 
one,  too — I  used  to  be  pleased  clear  to  the 
red  at  getting  all  that  attention  from  an  up 
per-classman.  The  satisfaction  cost  me  a 
good  many  pounds  of  tobacco,  though." 

"His  opinion  of  himself  politically  is  what 
kills  me.  Lyman  is  his  ideal.  He  loafs  in 
Frank's  room  until  Frank  has  had  to  give  up 
smoking.  It's  fun  to  see  him.  I  was  in  there 
the  other  night.  'How  are  you  going  to  stand 
on  the  election,  Frank?'  says  Boggsie,  as 
though  it  were  a  conference  of  the  powers. 
'Oh,  I  think  Higgins  is  pretty  good,'  says 
Frank;  'what  do  you  think?  Not  that  he 
gave  a  whoop;  he  was  trying  to  be  polite. 


Boggs'  Election  Feed.  X9* 

'Well,  I  may  use  my  influence  for  Castleton,' 
says  Boggsie,  with  his  pet  air  of  mystery. 
His  influence  consists  of  his  roommate.  'The 
deuce  you  will!'  says  Frank,  with  sarcasm. 
All  wasted  though,  for  Boggsie  fairly  chapped 
at  the  compliment  of  having  surprised  him. 
'Yes,'  said  Boggs,  'that's  what  I  like  to  see,  the 
office  seeking  the  man;  you  know,  a  fellow 
ought  to  wait  and  go  about  his  business  until 
people  recognize  him.  I  don't  like  to  see  a  man 
going  around  with  his  hand  out,  raking  the 
Freshmen  in.'  Then  he  looks  around  for  ap 
plause  and  slopes  out,  smoking  the  last  of  Ly- 
man's  Durham." 

"He  rake  in  the  Freshmen!  It  would  cost 
too  much!  Boggs  wants  the  office  to  seek 
him,  so  as  to  save  expense.  When  he  was 
small  I  think  he  must  have  been  the  sort  of 
kid  that  won't  play  his  marbles  for  fear  that 
he'll  wear  them  out.  He'd  do  anything  mean 
to  get  office,  but  he  won't  spend  money  for 
it;  he  has  enough,  too;  he  doesn't  have  to 
pinch  as  he  does,  but  he  hates  to  spend  a 
nickel  when  he  can  worm  it  out  of  other  peo 
ple.  I'd  love  to  get  a  feed  out  of  him  in  some 
way;  oh,  it  would  taste  good!" 

Pellams'  ruddy  face  glowed  fire-red  with 
the  dawn  of  an  idea.  His  inspiration  had 
come. 

"James  Russell  Lowell  Mason,  I'll  bet  you 
the  price  of — anything  you  name — that  I  cari 


'9*  Stanford  Stories. 

get  a  feed,  a  genuine,  Mayfield-with-all-ac- 
companiments,  a  Mayfield  beer-beefsteak- 
Swiss-cheese-wine-and-song  feed  out  of 
Boggsie!" 

The  aroma  of  the  coffee  filled  the  room. 
Jimmy  polished  his  stein  and  a  tumbler  and 
poured  for  the  two  of  them. 

"But  for  my  principle  never  to  bet  on  a 
sure  thing,  I'd  take  you,"  he  answered  calmly. 
"You  exclusive  frat-men  over  on  the  Row" 
(Pellams  was  always  loafing  around  the  Hall) 
"haven't  lived  long  enough  with  Boggsie  to 
know  him.  He's  a  lobster,  Pellams." 

But  the  fat  Junior  sat  there  with  mirth 
shining  from  every  line  of  his  face,  and  drank 
his  coffee;  then  he  rolled  on  the  floor  in  joy 
ous  delirium  and  beat  Jimmy's  rugs  with  an 
Indian  club  until  the  man  overhead  jumped 
out  of  bed  and  shouted  uncultured  things 
down  the  elevator. 

"Jimmy,  darling!"  cried  he,  waving  a  leg  in 
the  air  for  pure  rapture,  ''Boggsie  will  treat, 
sure.  We'll  get  him  on  his  one  big  weak 
ness;  we'll  play  politics  against  pinching;  you 
watch  the  office  seek  the  man." 

"I  don't—" 

"I  do.  Look  here;  to-morrow  we  nom 
inate  him.  You  have  a  mob  on  the  back  seats 
applauding  like  fiends,  and  I'll  be  the  power 
behind  the  throne  to  such  a  campaign  of 
blood,  beer  and  boodle  as  you  never  saw,  old 


Boggs'   Election  Feed.  X93 

Laundry-bags.  We'll  make  Boggsie  think 
he's  ahead  all  the  time;  we  can  get  him  some 
votes,  you  know;  and  then  he's  to  go  away 
election  day  for  the  sake  of  the  proprieties. 
I  telegraph  to  him,  'Elected  by  one  vote. 
Feed!'  We  have  the  feed  business  all  prop 
erly  worked  up  by  that  time,  of  course;  just 
sizzling  in  his  brain,  and  when  he  gets  off  the 
train  we'll  meet  him  with  a  mob  and  a  brass 
band,  run  him  to  Mayfield  or  Menlo,  and 
there'll  be  a  sound  of  revelry  by  night  at  his 
expense." 

The  ruin  of  this  particular  cramming  sem 
inary  was  accomplished.  The  "coffee  hours" 
were  spent  in  a  conference  broken  by  smoth 
ered  laughter,  and  by  "Nosey"  Marion's 
sleepy  protests  from  behind  the  curtains. 

Next  day,  after  Higgins  and  Castleton  had 
been  duly  placed  in  nomination,  Pellams  rose 
from  his  seat  in  Chapel  and  nominated  "Lo 
renzo  Boggs,  gentleman  and  student;  a  man 
who  has  let  college  politics  alone,  never  hav 
ing  sought  office  from  his  fellow-students  un 
til  now,  when  the  office  seeks  him — Lorenzo 
Boggs  for  Student-Body  president,"  amidst 
a  storm  of  applause  half  ironical,  half  worked 
up  by  Jimmy  Mason. 

Pellams  flunked  in  the  examination;  his  co- 
conspirator  passed  meagerly;  but  Pellams' 
heart  lost  little  of  its  wonted  buoyancy.  This 
was  about  the  last  class  of  any  kind  he  at- 


X94  Stanford  Stories. 

tended  in  the  week  between  nomination  and 
election.  From  the  Row  to  the  Hall  and  from 
the  Hall  to  Palo  Alto  he  moved  with  an  en 
ergy  rare  to  his  rotund  body.  It  was  a  new 
sensation,  politics  with  a  josh  behind.  He 
revelled  in  it. 

"We  have  to  put  up  some  show  of  constit 
uents,  you  know,"  he  said  to  Mason;  "and,  as 
Higgins  and  Castleton  have  no  strings  on 
me,  I  might  as  well  help  Boggsie  out.  Too 
bad  my  personal  magnetism  isn't  being  dif 
fused  for  a  more  likely  candidate." 

"Looks  curious,"  said  Jimmy,  "the  fight 
Boggs  is  putting  up.  Yesterday  I  struck  the 
Women's  Debating  League;  they  won't  vote 
for  Higgins  because  they  have  been  credibly 
informed — by  the  Castleton  people,  of  course 
— that  he's  bad,  and—" 

"You  and  I  should  have  been  nominated, 
St.  James,"  interrupted  Pellams,  crossing  his 
hands  on  his  breast  and  looking  at  the  gas 
fixture. 

"And  they  won't  vote  for  Castleton 
because  they  have  found  out  that  when  he 
fixed  up  the  open  meeting  between  his  soci 
ety  and  theirs  he  was  only  playing  for  votes." 

"Do  you  know  that  Boggs  has  a  girl  cousin 
in  Palo  Alto?  He  has  worked  her  to  whoop 
it  up  for  him  down  there." 

"His  literary  society  will  go  for  him  all 
right.  They  are  tired  of  the  way  Castleton 


Boggs*  Election  Feed.  J95 

and  Higgins  have  been  waiting  for  the  job  to 
drop  down  like  a  ripe  plum.  Those  two  marks 
have  worked  the  thing  too  long." 

"Jimmy,  you  don't  mean  that  Boggs  has 
any  chance?" 

"Not  a  ghost.  But  we  don't  have  to  work 
up  the  whole  thing;  there'll  be  enough  to 
make  a  decent  showing  and  lend  an  air  of 
truth  to  that  telegram  of  ours.  What  have 
you  done?" 

"Got  the  Rhos,  anyway.  We  won't  vote 
for  anyone  as  a  frat;  the  fellows  hate  Castle- 
ton  on  account  of  that  Annual-board  election 
last  Christmas,  and  Higgins  has  thrown  mud 
at  us  that  we  know  of.  I've  about  signed 
them  all,  except  Duncan.  Bob  knew  Hig 
gins'  wife's  cousin  in  some  dark  corner  of  the 
country.  Say,  it's  funny  how  tired  people 
in  general  are  getting  of  Higgins  and  Castle- 
ton  and  their  gang  politics.  At  Palo  Alto 
yesterday  I  heard  a  crowd  talking  about  it. 
'Down  with  organized  politics,'  they  said,  and 
one  of  them  who  works  in  the  laboratory 
with  Boggsie  said  he  was  going  to  vote  for 
modest  merit." 

"Keep  it  going,  Pellams,  it  won't  hurt. 
Soothe  his  feelings  beautifully  after  the  ban 
quet.  I  have  it  all  fixed  up  to  get  him  off  the 
campus." 

Higgins'  stock  went  down  wonderfully  in 
the  next  few  days.  Higgins,  said  the  Castle- 


*96  Stanford  Stories. 

ton  men,  had  pulled  wires  and  worked  com 
binations  ever  since  he  had  been  in  the  Uni 
versity.  It  hurts  a  College  politician  to  have 
it  known  that  he  has  been  in  politics.  They 
pointed  to  his  rather  doubtful  record  as  a 
member  of  the  Daily  Palo  Alto  board.  The 
sins  of  his  Freshman  days  rose  up  against 
him  when  they  touched  on  the  fact  that  he  had 
been  elected  class-president  on  a  barb  ticket, 
and  had  immediately  gone  over  to  the  enemy 
in  a  fraternity  house.  Finally,  to  fill  his  cup, 
a  Freshman,  who  had  withstood  fraternity 
blandishments  for  a  year,  glided  through  the 
hands  of  the  Gamma  Chi  Taus,  who  fully 
believed  they  had  him,  and  appeared  on  the 
very  Sunday  preceding  election  in  all  the 
glory  of  Higgins'  frat  pin.  It  was  a  bad 
slip;  right  there  it  cost  fifteen  Gamma  Chi 
votes  with  a  large  girl  following. 

"It  isn't  the  swell  girls  that  count  for  num 
bers,  anyway,"  reflected  the  Higgins'  sup 
porters,  wisely,  and  they  turned  to  the  culti 
vation  of  the  dig  girl  who  trails  up  the  cin 
der  paths  mornings  at  eight,  and  who  lives  in 
the  library  during  football  practice.  But  the 
girl  cousin  of  Boggs  had  been  there  to  good 
purpose  when  they  turned  in  that  direction, 
and  Roble  only  showed  Castleton  still  ahead. 
Then  a  not  over-scrupulous  Junior  in  Hig 
gins'  trail  started  a  story  on  Castleton,  a  tale 
calculated  to  put  him  in  the  same  category, 


Boggs'  Election  Feed.  '97 

so  far  as  being  "bad"  was  concerned.  Wed 
nesday  evening  the  anecdote  reached  Roble; 
a  girl  who  had  a  brother  heard  it  spreading  at 
dinner,  and  by  noon  next  day  half  the  girls 
in  Roble  had  their  opinion  of  a  crowd  that 
would  start  such  a  malicious  libel  on  Mr. 
Castleton  "just  to  get  votes."  The  Encina 
politicians  did  not  know  Roble  girls  for  noth 
ing. 

So  it  happened  on  Thursday  that  Pellams 
clumped  breathlessly  into  Jimmy's  room  with 
a  still  wet  copy  of  the  Daily  and  tragically 
pointed  to  the  notice:  "WITHDRAWAL:  I 
hereby  withdraw  from  my  candidacy  for 
Student-Body  presidency  in  favor  of  Lorenzo 
Boggs.  Andrew  Higgins." 

"Ye  gods,"  gasped  the  Sophomore,  "he 
can't  win,  Pellams,  he  can't!  Castleton  gets 
it  sure.  For  heaven's  sake,  don't  put  the  gang 
on  to  this  until  after  to-morrow,  though.  I 
wouldn't  have  the  double-cross  worked  on  us 
for  a  cool  ten  credits." 

Fair  dawned  the  day  that  was  to  float  or  to 
wreck  so  many  little  hopes.  There  are  two 
periods  of  the  year  when  the  professor  who 
has  been  young  forgets  the  roll-call,  and  the 
one  who  never  has  been,  remembers  it.  The 
first  period  comes  in  late  November;  the 
other  is  the  morning  of  the  Student-Body 
election. 


'9s  Stanford  Stories. 

With  consummate  tact,  Jimmy  had  come  to 
an  understanding  with  Boggs  as  to  the  pro 
priety  of  his  leaving  the  campus  during  the 
election. 

"You  see,  you  stand  a  splendid  show  of  get 
ting  it,"  he  explained,  "and  the  appropriate 
thing  for  you  is  to  keep  out  of  sight.  When 
Pellams  nominated  you  he  made  a  point  out 
of  the  fact  that  the  office  was  seeking  you; 
that  has  been  a  leading  feature  of  the  cam 
paign,  and  it  has  won  you  lots  of  votes.  You 
must  not  spoil  the  impression  you  have  made 
for  yourself  and  which  we  have  emphasized 
all  along.  See?" 

Boggs  saw,  or  thought  he  did,  and  went  to 
town,  ostensibly  to  carry  out  a  commission 
for  Pellams,  but  not  before  he  had  rallied 
some  of  his  constituents  and  given  them  final 
instructions.  It  was  wonderful  to  see  what  a 
variety  of  tastes  and  interests  were  repre 
sented.  An  older  politician  would  have 
scented  danger  from  the  fact  that  so  many 
of  them  had  never  come  out  into  the  arena 
before;  but  Jimmy  only  looked  with  smiling 
curiosity  on  the  Ethics  major  or  the  Educa 
tion  "shark,"  dug  up  somewhere  from  their 
abstruse  speculations. 

It  was  on  their  way  to  the  station  that 
Jimmy  touched  on  the  remaining  issue  of  the 
campaign  which  he  was  managing. 


Boggs'  Election  Feed.  J99 

"You  remember  my  speaking  about  a  feed 
the  other  day?  I  ought  to  have  spoken  more 
fully,  but  I've  been  busy  with  other  details." 

"Oh,"—  began  Boggs. 

"You  know  the  custom,"  cut  in  the  con 
spirator;  "it  will  be  expected  of  you  if  you 
get  the  office;  it  ought  to  come  off  to-night 
to  be  done  properly." 

"That  will  all  be  attended  to,"  said  Boggs 
calmly. 

"You've  seen  about  it?" 

"It's  all  fixed." 

"There'll  be  a  lot  of  them;  they  will  meet 
you  at  the  train  and  you'll  have  to  do  it  in 
shape.  I  can  lend  you  a  little." 

"Thanks,  old  man,"  said  the  victim,  squeez 
ing  Mason's  arm,  "but  just  you  leave  that  to 
me.  It's  all  arranged  to  do  the  square  thing 
by  the  people  who  have  stood  in  with  me. 
So  long.  Look  out  for  me,  won't  you?  I'll 
be  down  on  the  Flyer." 

When  Jimmy  got  back  to  the  Quadrangle 
there  was  a  shifting  mass  about  the  polls. 
Encina  politicians  were  there,  Palo  Alto 
politicians,  serious-looking  fellows  from  the 
Camp,  and  spruce  ones  from  the  Row.  Cas- 
tleton's  followers  stood  in  groups,  looking 
smug  and  confident,  while  sour-faced  Hig- 
gins  people  were  revengefully  putting  in  all 
their  work  for  Boggs. 


200  Stanford  Stories. 

Every  election  has  its  Mark  Hanna;  this 
time  it  was  Jennie  Brown,  whom  Pellams 
knew  as  "Boggsie's  dig  girl  cousin."  She 
was  the  silent  spirit  of  the  whole  Boggs  cam 
paign.  Mason,  in  telling  the  story  of  it  after 
ward,  said: 

"Pellams  and  I  were  there  when  the  polls 
opened.  That  girl  was  on  hand,  too,  with  a 
gang  of  Palo  Alto  girls  all  ready  to  start 
things  for  Boggsie.  Well,  you  ought  to  have 
seen  her.  Heaven  help  us  and  our  masculine 
schemes  if  they  get  women  suffrage  and  the 
Brown  lives.  At  ten-thirty  in  the  first  rush 
she  steered  a  whole  Education  class,  worked 
them  beautifully  past  Castleton's  hungry 
heelers,  right  up  to  the  ballot-box.  She 
wasn't  working  combinations;  it  cut  no  ice 
with  her  how  they  voted  for  managers,  and 
treasurers  and  editors,  so  long  as  they  were 
solid  for  Lorenzo  Boggs. 

"I  numbered  them  off  as  they  voted,  and  I 
could  see  that  things  were  going  darkly  and 
suspiciously  for  our  friend  the  Lobster. 
'What  do  you  think  of  it?'  says  Pellams.  He 
was  getting  excited.  'We  didn't  know  our 
power,  did  we?  Look  at  the  votes  he's  roll 
ing  up.  Say,  we're  corkers  and  never  knew 
it!'  A  few  classes  from  the  respectable  part 
of  the  Quad,  where  they  do  Political  Science, 
came  drifting  along  then  with  votes  for  Cas- 


Boggs'  Election  Feed.  201 

tleton,  and  it  went  Castleton  for  awhile;  then 
a  lull  during  class,  followed  by  a  scattering 
vote  for  Boggs.  It  was  about  an  even  thing 
during  eleven-thirty  break,  with  Castleton 
still  ahead.  The  frat  votes  fell  in  bunches  in 
the  biggest  rush  at  noon;  I  could  catch  old 
Boggsie's  name  marked  on  most  of  them,  but 
Castleton  was  full  fifty  to  the  good  then.  I 
bolted  lunch  with  Pellams  at  his  house  and 
came  back  to  the  Quad.  Things  were  begin 
ning  to  happen.  People  I  never  heard  of, 
the  kind  of  bird  that  floats  in  and  out  on  the 
train  and  probably  doesn't  know  there  is  a 
Student-Body  with  troubles  of  its  own;  digs, 
crawling  out  into  the  light,  blinking  away  at 
the  line ;  Laboratory  fiends  in  squads,  actually 
losing  twenty  minutes  of  precious  credit, — 
the  darndest  crowd  of  resurrected  stiffs  the 
Quad  ever  saw,  strung  out  from  the  regis 
trar's  office  to  the  polls,  every  last  one  of 
them  squeezing  a  ballot  properly  marked 
ahead,  all  looking  as  if  it  were  a  conferring  of 
degrees,  serious  as  hell,  you  know,  and  the 
eye  of  the  Brown  girl  or  of  one  of  her  crowd 
fastened  on  each  of  them.  Poor  Castleton, 
he  was  a  goner!  His  heelers  got  up  against 
this  line  of  sphinxes  and  fell  back,  done  up. 
It  was  two  o'clock  and  after;  still  the  vote 
rolled  up.  At  two-thirty  they  closed  shop, 
and  Pellams  and  I  fell  on  each  other's  chests 


202  Stanford  Stories. 

behind  a  pillar,  and  busted  at  the  josh  on  our 
selves. 

"Then  we  went  over  to  get  the  figures  of 
our  triumph.  'Boggs,  402;  Castleton,  375,' 
and  the  biggest  vote  in  the  history  of  the 
office.  "Well,  you  bet  we  went  down  to  the 
train!  Couldn't  freeze  us  out!  We  were  go 
ing  to  pry  open  the  Lobster's  claws  and  use 
them  for  a  corkscrew.  So  we  piled  into  a 
'bus.  But,  honest,  we  were  paralyzed. 

"Down  at  the  station  was  the  conquering 
Brown  with  her  people,  all  watching  for  the 
train.  Say,  when  Boggsie  saw  the  whole  gang 
of  us,  he  was  a  balloon.  He  got  up  on  a  truck 
and  made  us  a  speech  of  thanks.  Pellams  and 
I  yelled  'Hear,  Hear,'  right  along.  Oh,  it 
was  awful!  He  gave  us  the  whole  history 
of  the  Student-Body  from  the  days  of  'Ninety- 
one  up.  Finally  Pellams  couldn't  stand  it  any 
longer  and  called  out,  'Good  boy,  Boggsie. 
How  about  that  feed?'  and  Boggsie  waved  his 
hand  like  a  Tuesday  evening  spieler  and  said, 
'I  have  provided  for  that,  ladies  and  gentle 
men.  Miss  Brown,  my  cousin,  invites  you  all 
down  to  her  home  in  Palo  Alto  for  a  little 
refreshment.  Everyone  is  welcome.' 

"I  had  to  pick  my  fat  friend  up.  Boggsie's 
getting  out  of  the  whole  thing  without  spend 
ing  a  bean  knocked  him  cold.  But  he  got  his 
wind  later.  You  ought  to  have  heard  his 


Boggs'  Election  Feed.  203 

speech  down  there  at  the  house,  with  a  plate 
of  melted  strawberry  muck  in  one  hand  and  a 
glass  of  sour  in  the  other,  replying  to  Bogg- 
sie's  vote  of  thanks  to  us  two,  and  skinning 
his  face  at  the  Brown  girl.  Oh,  it  was  a 
peach!" 


IN   THE   DARK   DAYS. 


In  the  Dark  Days. 

"Mrs.    Leland    Stanford   has   decided   to   sell   her  jewels  to 
keep  open   the  doors  of  the   University." 

ASSOCIATED   PRESS   REPORTS,    1896. 

Bonita,  mother  of  racers,  stood  just  beyond 
the  shadow  of  an  oak  tree,  leisurely  cropping 
the  new  pasture  grass.  Occasionally,  she  lifted 
her  head  toward  the  red  roofs  of  the  University 
buildings  as  though  she  expected  somebody. 
The  chimney  sent  up  a  stripe  of  black  against 
patches  of  cloud  and  sky,  and  the  even  hum 
of  the  shops  came  across  the  pasture  with  a 
distinctness  born  of  the  motionless  Spring  air. 
Bonita,  putting  her  pointed  ears  forward,  could 
catch  the  upper  notes  of  the  chorus,  rehears 
ing  in  the  Chapel. 

Such  a  day  as  this  should  bring  Craig  into 
the  pastures.  He  could  lean  on  the  fence  and 
pull  at  his  pipe  to  his  heart's  content.  The 
brood-mare  did  not  fancy  the  smoke,  but  she 
liked  to  have  him  talk  to  her.  There  were  a 
number  of  interests  they  had  in  common;  the 
smell  of  the  new  grass,  the  tempting  silver- 
green  of  willows  budding  along  the  lake  be 
yond  the  fence,  delighted  him,  too,  while 
207 


203  Stanford  Stones. 

Bonita  herself  was  deeply  interested  in  his 
University. 

She  could  remember  perfectly  the  days  when 
the  ranch  spread  undisturbed  from  her  paddock 
in  the  stockfarm  yard  to  the  deep  shadows  of 
the  Arboretum.  Then  she  was  only  a  colt, 
to  be  sure;  but  the  world  beyond  the  paddock 
fence  interested  her.  The  grooms  in  the  yard 
were  not  more  sorry  than  she  herself  that  the 
last  colt  from  a  famous  sire  should  be  a  filly 
with  an  imperfect  ankle-joint.  When  they 
took  the  other  colts  out  of  the  paddock  to  put 
them  through  their  morning  lessons  around 
the  little  ring  in  the  kindergarten,  she  wished 
mightily  to  follow.  She  turned  about  the  cor 
ral  at  a  good  speed  to  show  them  that  she  had 
the  proper  spirit  of  her  blood,  but  they  always 
shut  the  red  gate  too  soon  and  the  others  went 
on  up  the  road  impudently  flicking  their  fuzzy 
tails  at  her. 

A  gray-bearded  man  with  kindly  eyes,  whom 
they  called  the  "Governor,"  used  to  drive  up 
under  the  blossoming  eucalyptus  trees  every 
now  and  then ;  he  stopped  one  day  by  her  pad 
dock  and  came  to  look  at  her.  Bonita  liked 
him  at  once,  and  she  paid  him  the  most  deli 
cate  attention  she  knew  by  trying  to  eat  his 
clothes.  The  Governor  laughed  as  he  put  her 
off,  and  said  that  it  was  too  bad  about  her 
ankle.  Then  he  drove  over  to  watch  the  kin 
dergarten  learn  the  alphabet  of  race-winning. 


In  the   Dark  Days.  209 

Later,  she  watched  her  fellows  go  lightly 
down  the  road  to  the  stock  car  and  rumble 
away  over  the  track  to  the  main  line  and  on 
to  the  great  world  where  men  put  trust  in  them 
and  sent  them  back  to  the  Farm  with  news 
paper  clippings  and  horseshoe  wreaths  made 
of  immortelles  with  the  figure  2-and-a-fraction 
in  the  middle. 

When  she  was  grown  and  they  had  put  her 
out  in  a  side  pasture,  there  were  some  new 
stables  there,  with  a  lot  of  men  thronging 
round  them  who  did  not  look  like  grooms. 
The  knowledge  that  something  of  importance 
to  the  world  was  about  to  happen  the  other 
side  of  the  fence  made  her  feel  more  con 
tented.  If  she  could  not  travel  in  a  box  car  to 
see  such  things,  it  was  good  to  have  some  of 
the  excitement  of  it  brought  in  to  the  ranch. 

At  first  she  did  not  notice  much,  being 
deeply  interested  just  then  in  the  early  educa 
tion  of  Fenelon,  2.10^,  who  was  a  fretful  in 
fant  and  took  up  most  of  her  time.  When  he 
had  passed  out  of  her  immediate  care  and  was 
cropping  sweet  alfalfa  with  the  rest,  she 
watched  curiously  the  foundations  sinking  into 
the  grass,  the  crowd  of  people  who  came  one 
May  morning  to  hear  things  said  round  a 
block  of  yellow  sandstone,  the  fitting  of  the 
red  tiling  above  the  stone  walls.  By  this  time 
she  knew  the  reason  of  it  all;  the  dead  heir,  the 
monument,  the  boys  and  girls  who  were  com- 


2i°  Stanford  Stories. 

ing  to  be  taught  in  this  great  kindergarten. 
Finally,  when  these  had  poured  into  the  place, 
some  of  them  straggled  out  into  the  pasture 
and  made  friends  with  her.  From  them  she 
learned  more  definitely  the  great  things  that 
had  been  done  and  were  about  to  happen;  they 
told  her  of  the  wonderful  endowment,  of  the 
strangers  from  corners  of  the  world  never 
reached  even  by  the  lucky  horses  who  had 
rolled  away  in  the  box  cars,  of  the  numberless 
buildings  that  were  to  surround  and  dwarf  the 
structures  she  had  seen  grow  up  in  the  sun. 

"The  Governor"  had  driven  less  often 
through  the  yard  since  the  yellow  buildings 
were  up,  and  the  boys  and  girls  playing  among 
them.  After  awhile  he  ceased  to  come  alto 
gether.  Then  Bonita,  the  brood-mare,  under 
stood  that  something  had  happened.  It  was 
more  quiet  everywhere  after  this.  Most  of  the 
horses  and  mares,  her  colts  among  them,  went 
off  in  the  cars,  not  to  come  back,  they  told  her. 
She  stood  under  the  dark  oaks  for  hours  at  a 
time,  fearing  lest  they  would  send  her,  too. 
Her  longing  for  the  world  was  past  now;  she 
wished  to  be  left  in  the  quiet  pastures  with 
the  students  to  talk  to. 

It  was  during  these  days  that  Craig,  who 
taught  something  to  the  younger  people,  used 
to  lean  on  the  fence  and  smoke  during  the 
afternoons.  He  was  not  much  older  than 
many  of  the  students  she  knew,  and  she  liked 


In  the  Dark  Days.  JI1 

him  particularly.  He  had  lumps  of  something 
white  and  sweet,  and  he  rubbed  her  head  in 
exactly  the  right  spot.  When  she  had  won  his 
confidence,  he  told  her  many  things  about  him 
self  and  the  College.  Once  he  had  been  at  an 
other  place,  a  college  older  than  this  by  a  long 
time  but  not  so  famous.  The  Overseer  of  this 
one  had  written  him  to  come  and  teach  there, 
at  a  better  salary.  He  explained  to  her  what 
this  meant — money  for  the  support  of  his 
mother,  and  in  a  few  years  the  study  in  Europe 
of  which  he  dreamed,  and  for  which  he  worked 
and  saved,  and  beside  this  the  growing  up  with 
a  new  university,  from  an  instructorship  in  the 
present  to  a  full  professorship  in  the  wonderful 
future.  He  told  her  what  was  promised  him, 
and  showed  her  a  picture  once  of  the  plan  of 
the  completed  university,  with  its  arch  and 
chapel  tower  and  the  great  mechanical  shops 
spreading  back  across  her  shady  pasture  to  the 
borders  of  the  lake. 

Then  she  learned  what  the  death  of  "the 
Governor"  had  brought  upon  them;  why  the 
horses  had  been  sold  and  why  there  were  no 
more  hammers  nor  chisels  ringing  against  the 
stone.  The  farm  was  losing  a  thousand  dol 
lars  a  day,  and  the  Government  had  seized 
upon  the  money  they  were  building  the  monu 
ment  with  and  was  trying  to  wrest  it  entirely 
from  the  woman  who  had  stopped  once  to  pet 
the  brood-mare  when  "the  Governor"  was 


*12  Stanford  Stories. 

driving  in  the  yard.  These  things  were  hard  to 
understand.  There  had  never  been  any  ques 
tion  of  money  here  that  Bonita  could  remem 
ber. 

One  day  she  had  nosed  vainly  for  the  sugar 
he  used  to  bring;  Craig  told  her  that  for  two 
months  he  had  had  no  money  to  give  his 
mother;  that  if  it  wasn't  for  a  grocer  in  May- 
field  who  was  kind  to  people  in  trouble,  they 
would  have  had  nothing  to  eat.  Bonita,  re 
membering  the  students  she  had  seen  gather 
ing  mushrooms,  suggested  grass:  but  he  told 
her,  laughing,  that  only  one  man  to  his  knowl 
edge  had  ever  lived  that  way  and  he  was  a 
king,  long  ago,  in  the  holy  times.  He,  Craig, 
would  have  to  have  money.  In  an  old  vest  he 
had  worn  in  the  East,  his  mother  found  a  few 
pennies  and  had  walked  to  Palo  Alto  and  spent 
them  for  stamps  for  the  sake  of  paying  for 
something.  After  this  explanation,  Bonita 
did  not  hunt  for  sugar. 

Although  things  grew  easier  after  a  time, 
Craig  was  gloomy  enough  during  the  after 
noons  when  they  talked  across  the  fence. 
Once  "the  Governor's  Wife"  had  been  given 
five  hundred  dollars  to  pay  her  servants,  and 
she  had  given  it  to  the  Overseer  for  his  teach 
ers.  But  the  Overseer  had  begun  at  the 
houses  where  there  were  the  most  children, 
and  he  had  not  got  around  to  Craig,  who  had 
only  a  mother.  When  temptation  came  to  him, 


In  the  Dark  Days.  "3 

he  told  Bonita  about  it  and  asked  her  advice. 
A  letter  had  come  to  him  with  an  offer  from 
his  old  college;  it  meant  a  full  salary  and  the 
hope  of  Europe.  It  was  everything  to  him,  he 
said,  but  he  couldn't  bear  to  go  away.  The 
brood-mare  had  put  her  nose  affectionately 
against  his  arm.  She  understood  little  about 
the  salary,  but  she  knew  how  dreadful  it  would 
be  to  leave  the  pasture.  The  man  must  have 
understood,  for  after  being  quiet  a  long  time 
and  smoking  harder  than  ever,  he  said  that  he 
was  going  to  stay.  But  many  times  after  that, 
when  other  offers  came,  he  told  her  how  hard 
it  was  to  decide  and  how  black  everything 
looked  for  the  University.  The  Government 
was  pulling  at  the  fund,  and  the  lady  who 
was  building  the  monument  was  going  to  sell 
her  precious  things  to  get  money. 

The  last  time  Craig  leaned  on  the  fence  and 
whistled  to  her,  he  had  been  very  unhappy. 
Since  then  Bonita  had  not  seen  him.  She  was 
afraid  that  he,  too,  had  gone,  after  all,  as  the 
horses  and  grooms  had  gone,  without  even  a 
good-bye.  She  felt  that  if  he  had  finally  de 
cided  to  give  it  up,  the  smoke  must  fade  away 
above  the  top  of  the  chimney  and  the  voices 
cease  altogether. 

But  to-day,  when  the  clouds  were  breaking 
and  the  clear  blue  of  summer-time  looked 
down  between  them,  the  chimney-smoke  was 
blacker  than  ever  and  across  bv  the  lake  fence 


"4  Stanford  Stories. 

some  young  people  were  pulling  mushrooms 
and  laughing.  Bonita  looked  over  toward 
the  buildings.  Then  she  cropped  grass  again, 
for  only  a  gurgling  meadow-lark  broke  the 
line  of  the  fence-rail. 

Suddenly  she  heard  Craig's  low  whistle. 
He  had  come  out  from  the  Wood-shop  and 
put  his  elbows  on  the  fence,  his  pipe  sending 
up  clear,  white  smoke.  Stopping  now  and  then 
for  a  blade  of  grass,  to  show  that  she  was 
not  too  eager,  the  brood-mare  walked  slowly 
up  to  him.  He  was  not  happy,  as  she  had  ex 
pected  to  find  him.  His  brow  was  puckered 
and  his  lips  shut  tightly  on  the  stem  of  his 
pipe.  Bonita  put  her  nose  over  the  fence. 
The  instructor  took  his  pipe  from  his  mouth 
and  rubbed  her  cheek  slowly  with  the  back  of 
his  knuckles. 

"Well,  old  girl,"  he  said,  "I'm  afraid  you 
and  I  won't  have  many  more  talks  over  this 
fence." 

The  brood-mare  looked  at  him  with  ques 
tioning  eyes. 

"I  plead  guilty,"  he  went  on,  "I  oughtn't  to 
have  kept  the  secret  from  you,  I  know.  The 
minute  I  got  the  letter  I  should  have  come 
out  to  tell  you  about  it,  but  it  was  raining; 
honestly,  it  was." 

He  gave  her  a  lump  of  sugar  by  way  of  con 
ciliation. 

"You  see,  I  couldn't  resist  this  one,"  he 


In  the  Dark  Days.  2I5 

continued,  while  the  sugar  crunched  under  her 
teeth;  "it's  a  big  honor  and  three  thousand 
a  year,  and  I've  got  to  do  something;  now, 
haven't  I?" 

His  tone  was  doubtful,  as  though  he  were 
hardly  sure  of  her  opinion.  The  meadow-lark 
which  he  had  disturbed  was  releasing  the  joy 
of  its  full  throat  under  a  shaft  of  sunlight 
further  down  the  fence.  The  air  hung  over 
them,  sweet  with  the  fragrance  of  the  fresh 
ened  pasture,  charged  with  the  mysterious 
power  of  a  Santa  Clara  Spring.  No  man, 
or  horse,  who  has  caught  that  smell,  ever  for 
gets  the  valley  of  the  Saint.  Bonita  was  look 
ing  across  the  green  to  the  mushroom  gath 
erers. 

Craig  spoke,  a  little  petulantly. 
"You  never  agree  with  me  about  my  go 
ing,  anyway.  You  seem  to  think  that  the 
beauty  of  this  campus  and  the  freedom  of 
everything  here  is  argument  enough.  But 
it's  all  too  uncertain.  I've  told  you  that  my 
salary  is  cut  away  down  and  I'm  not  any  too 
sure  of  ever  having  it  made  up  to  me;  as  it  is, 
we  assistants  are  here  only  because  the  heads 
decided  to  cut  their  own  pay  and  keep  us  for 
the  sake  of  the  departments.  If  the  suit  is 
lost,  it's  good-bye,  anyway.  I  can't  believe 
you  have  much  idea  that  we're  going  to  win  it 
to-morrow.  It  went  for  us  in  the  lower 
courts,  here  in  California,  but  do  you  think 


216  Stanford  Stones. 

that  the  Supreme  Court  of  these  selfish  and 
United  States  is  going  to  decide  for  us  just 
because  they  were  gallant  enough  to  Mrs. 
Stanford  to  hurry  the  case  up  in  the  calendar 
and  cut  short  her  suspense?  You  don't  un 
derstand  things,  if  you  think  so.  Out  here 
where  you  live,  the  rains  may  be  late  and  the 
grass  seem  never  coming,  but  you  know  it'll 
rain  sooner  or  later,  and  you're  getting  hay 
right  along  and  it  doesn't  take  much  water  to 
bring  up  what  you  want.  But  with  me  it's 
different.  We're  going  to  get  a  weather  pre 
diction  from  Washington  to-morrow  that'll 
tell  us  definitely  whether  it's  to  be  winter  for 
keeps  around  here  or  summer  and  a  good 
crop." 

The  instructor  leaned  on  the  fence  and 
puffed  on  at  his  pipe.  Bonita  endured  the 
smoke  that  clung  around  them  in  the  still  air, 
for  she  felt  that  they  were  at  a  crisis.  She 
drew  up  closer  to  the  rails  and  put  her  head 
against  the  insntructor's  shoulder.  Suddenly, 
the  man  let  his  pipe  fall  into  the  grass  and 
he  laid  his  face  against  her  soft,  gray  nose. 

"You're  a  good  old  girl,"  he  said,  "and  you 
know  more  about  it  than  anyone.  But  you 
haven't  any  money  question  to  worry  you. 
You  don't  love  the  place  a  bit  more  than  I 
do;  you  don't  love  it  as  much,  because  you 
only  know  the  nature  side  of  it,  and  I  know 
the  bigness  of  the  rest  of  it,  too.  But  the 


In  the  Dark  Days.  21? 

hope's  almost  dead,  old  lady;  I  can't  tie  my 
ambitions  to  a  corpse,  you  wouldn't  ask  me 
to,  and  you  know  I'm  not  the  only  one  to  be 
looked  after.  But,  oh,  it'll  be  hard  to  go, 
won't  it!  There's  something  that  grips  you 
where  you  live — you  understand  it." 

The  brood-mare  did  not  pull  away,  al 
though  he  was  holding  her  head  tightly  in  his 
hot  hands. 

"If  it  all  goes  smash  to-morrow  and  I  can 
ever  raise  the  money,  I'm  going  to  send  back 
for  you,  my  beauty.  You're  getting  too  old 
to  bring  much  now,  and  you'll  have  to  go  sure 
if  the  Government  wins." 

Bonita  lifted  her  head  suddenly.  A  drop 
of  cold  rain  had  fallen  against  her  face.  The 
clouds  had  drawn  together  sulkily  above 
them.  Across  the  intervening  turf  hastened 
the  mushroom  gatherers,  their  baskets  full 
of  the  brown  and  white  trophies.  Craig  picked 
up  his  pipe. 

"Good-bye,"  he  said,  with  a  caress.  "I'll 
come  over  to-morrow  and  tell  you  the  final 
news." 

Bonita  had  never  shown  him  how  much  she 
really  cared,  true  to  her  feminine  reserve;  but 
to-day,  leaning  her  slender  neck  far  over  the 
fence,  she  whinnied  after  him  until  he  stopped 
at  the  corner  of  the  Power-house  and  waved 
back  to  her.  Then  she  cropped  grass  slowly 
while  it  began  to  sprinkle. 


2x8  Stanford  Stories. 

Next  morning,  when  the  second  hour  was 
about  half  through,  a  feeling  of  excitement 
filled  the  Quad  and  penetrated  the  class 
rooms.  Craig's  students  were  not  paying 
very  creditable  attention  to  his  lecture.  He 
himself  was  keeping  his  mind  on  the  syllabus 
with  considerable  difficulty.  When  someone 
passed  the  window  and  the  eyes  of  the  entire 
class,  including  even  the  enthusiastic  dig  on 
the  front  seat,  were  turned  that  way,  Craig 
let  his  own  wander  and  hesitated  the  least  bit 
in  his  talk. 

All  at  once,  like  a  thunderclap,  a  half-dozen 
voices  somewhere  in  the  Quad  gave  the  yell. 
Craig  stopped  speaking  and  looked  at  the 
class,  who  gazed  back  at  him.  A  man  with  his 
back  to  the  windows  stood  up  and  looked  out. 
The  seats  creaked  ominously.  Then,  like 
grass  after  a  breeze,  the  whole  class  rose  and 
craned  necks  at  the  window. 

The  instructor,  coming  to  himself,  began 
feebly: 

"If  you  please — " 

Again  the  yell,  not  the  desperate  cry  that 
is  wrung  out  to  cheer  a  losing  team,  but  the 
voice  of  victory,  of  joy  and  of  great  relief. 

Professor  Craig  went  out  of  his  classroom 
like  a  shot,  the  class  after  him. 

There  was  a  triumphal  parade  to  the  sta 
tion,  with  flags  and  the  entire  population  of 
Roble  beating  time  with  dust-pans  and 


In  the  Dark  Days.  2I9 

brooms,  to  meet  the  President  who  had  sent 
the  happy  telegram.  There  were  songs  and 
speeches  and  demonstrations  in  front  of 
Xasmin  House,  with  fellows  hugging  each 
other  or  swinging  round  in  side-line  fashion, 
girls  crying,  and  the  President's  parrot  in 
cidentally  learning  the  yell.  Then,  at  night, 
the  alumni  poured  in  on  the  trains  from  north 
and  south,  stirring  the  tumult  anew.  Gay 
lanterns  jewelled  the  porches  of  the  Row,  the 
Gym  blazed  with  light  for  more  speeches  and 
football  songs,  with  no  thought  of  football 
in  the  singing  of  them,  and  round  and  round 
the  shadowy  Quad,  where  the  yell  flashed  in 
electric  letters,  went  a  wild  carnival  proces 
sion  of  men  and  women,  with  torches  and 
noise-machines,  and  Instructor  Craig  at  their 
head. 

The  gleam  of  the  unusual  lights,  the  happy 
shouts,  and  the  clamor  of  firecrackers,  came 
in  mingled  confusion  across  to  the  dark  pas 
ture  where  Bonita  stood  by  the  fence  with  her 
head  raised  and  her  pointed  ears  forward. 
Craig  had  not  come  that  afternoon  to  tell  her 
the  final  truth;  but,  listening  and  watching 
from  the  shadow,  she  did  not  feel  that  he  had 
gone  away. 

When  she  did  see  him  again,  he  wore  a  new 
suit  and,  what  was  more  important,  its 
pockets  bulged  with  sugar.  She  was  very 
glad  to  see  him,  of  course,  but  her  greeting 


220  Stanford  Stories. 

was  an  indifferent  one  after  all;  for  she  was 
preoccupied,  just  then,  with  the  infant  needs 
of  Pronto  2:17!,  and  could  not  stop  to  in 
terest  herself  in  the  fact  that  the  youngest 
of  the  universities  had  been  saved  for  all 
time. 


CROSSROADS. 


Crossroads. 

"Oh  see  ye  not  yon  narrow  road 

So  thick   beset  wi'   thorns   and   briers? 
That  is  the  Path  of  Righteousness, 
Though   after   it    but   few    inquires.' 

"And   see    ye   not    yon    braid,    braid   road, 

That  lies  across  the  lily  leven? 
That  is  the   Path  of   Wickedness, 
Though  some  call  that  the  road  to  Heaven." 
THOMAS  THE  RHYMER. 

I. 

The  regular  after-dinner  crowd  was  smok 
ing  in  Frank  Lyman's  Encina  boudoir,  lolling 
over  his  sofa,  their  feet  on  his  table,  their  legs 
tangled  on  his  iron  bedstead.  The  steam  heat 
was  coming  "Clank!  clank!"  into  the  radiat 
ors,  for  it  was  a  cold,  clear  evening  in  the  time 
between  rains.  Outside  the  fog  was  thick 
upon  the  hills,  sending  gray  ghost-fingers  over 
toward  the  valley.  You  could  lean  from  the 
window  and  smell  its  clean  moisture,  mingling 
with  the  scent  of  young  plants  in  the  fresh- 
turned  earth.  Frank  himself  sat  close  to  the 
window  and  looked  out  toward  the  gym 
nasium,  because  he  had  discovered  a  new 
amusement.  There  was  a  section  of  the  board 
walk  between  Encina  and  the  gym  which  was 
flooded  just  to  its  top  by  a  pool  from  the  late 
223 


224  Stanford  Stories. 

rain,  so  that  if  you  stepped  heavily  thereon 
the  plank  gave  a  bit  and  dropped  you  into 
the  water.  The  diversion  consisted  in  betting 
with  "Pegasus"  Langdon  on  the  style  of 
crossing  adopted  by  chance  wayfarers.  The 
stakes  were  five  cents  a  corner.  Frank 
backed  the  class  who  took  the  thing  at  one 
bound;  "Peg"  laid  his  coin  on  those  who 
went  over  on  their  tiptoes,  trying  not  to  spring 
the  plank  into  the  water.  For  every  one  who 
did  neither,  but  walked  around  the  puddle,  five 
cents  a  corner  went  into  the  tobacco  fund. 
It  was  just  as  good  as  matching  nickels  and 
involved  less  exertion. 

There  is  a  theory  in  the  Hall  that  you  can 
tell  a  man's  habits  by  the  rooms  he  occupies 
there.  The  nearer  he  gets  to  the  corner  front 
ing  on  the  baseball  field,  the  more  sociable  is 
his  nature.  Those  who  hold  the  rooms  at 
that  corner  or  on  the  second  or  third  floors, 
so  as  to  be  in  easy  hail  of  anyone  coming  in 
at  the  back  entrance,  are  Public  Characters. 
Their  apartments  are  reception  rooms  in 
very  truth.  It  has  never  been  explained  why 
Encina  does  not  sag  at  that  end,  like  an 
excursion  steamer  on  the  side  toward  a  boat 
race.  If,  on  the  other  hand,  you  believe  you 
have  a  Mission,  or  if  you  are  a  Dig,  rooming 
in  the  Hall  because  it  is  convenient  to  the 
Quad,  then  you  dwell  in  "Faculty  Row," 
away  off  to  the  east,  where  the  early  sun 


Crossroads.  22.l> 

pulls  you  out  in  time  to  put  the  finishing 
touches  to  your  Latin,  and  where  there  is  no 
trafficking  to  and  from  the  Quad  to  disturb 
your  evening  study. 

It  was  said  that  Frank  Lyman  was  the  only 
man  at  the  Quadrangle  end  of  the  Hall  who 
ever  made  much  pretense  of  studying.  By 
the  same  token  the  keepers  of  the  college  tra 
dition  alleged  that  he  alone  of  all  the  gang 
stood  high  in  the  opinion  of  the  Faculty.  It 
was  a  way  he  had.  He  stood  well  with 
everybody. 

If  they  had  taken  the  trouble  to  investigate, 
those  who  wondered  at  his  ability  both  to 
loaf  much  and  to  study  much,  at  his  scholar 
ship  dwelling  alongside  of  his  popularity,  they 
might  have  found  that  he  kept  the  two  things 
in  harmony  by  a  marvelous  system.  The  gang 
dwelt  in  his  room,  made  it  their  hang-out, 
but  only  just  so  long;  when  the  hour  arrived 
for  Lyman's  study-time,  they  vanished  away 
mysteriously,  took  the  hint  conveyed  in  some 
fashion,  no  one  ever  knew  how,  and  were 
gone. 

To  the  under-classmen,  Lyman  was  an  ob 
ject  of  healthy  awe.  Older  than  the  aver 
age  senior,  he  had  been  already  in  the 
larger  world.  His  opinion  of  things  had 
especial  value  even  in  his  Junior  year.  After 
the  football  season,  when  he  had  been  ac 
knowledged  the  keenest  manager  the  college 


226  Stanford  Stories. 

had  ever  found,  the  under-classmen  had  a 
blind  faith  in  his  infallibility.  The  older  stu 
dents  relied  on  him  in  much  the  same  way, 
though  there  were  some  who  said  that  self 
lay  at  the  bottom  of  Lyman's  system  of 
morals,  that  the  watchword  of  his  philosophy 
was  "Does  it  pay?"  These  men  were  senti 
mentalists  who  had  ideals.  Langdon,  the  Se 
quoia  editor,  would  have  told  you  that  he 
thought  more  of  Lyman  than  of  any  two  men 
in  the  class;  it  is  a  question,  though,  whether 
he  would  have  recommended  Lyman's  ad 
vice  in  everything.  Frank  was  a  good  man 
to  keep  a  Freshman's  money  for  him,  to  lis 
ten  to  his  class-room  troubles  or  to  stand 
between  the  luckless  youngster  and  Faculty 
wrath;  but  when  it  was  a  case  into  which 
something  deeper  entered,  perhaps  the  Sen 
ior's  worldly  philosophy  was  not  of  the  best 
sort.  This  was  the  idea  of  dreamers  like 
"Pegasus"  Langdon,  who  said  things  about 
"sentiment"  and  to  whom  Freshmen  seldom 
came  for  advice.  But  Lyman  continued  to 
hold  his  after-dinner  receptions,  and  his  ad 
mirers  piled  themselves  comfortably  on  bis 
bed  and  believed  in  him  implicitly. 

The  psychological  moment  came  for  the 
regular  withdrawal.  Frank  opened  his  win 
dows  with  care,  donned  the  old  bath-robe 
which  was  his  armor  for  the  battle  intellectual, 
put  on  his  eye-shade  over  his  straight  brown 


Crossroads.  227 

hair,  and  opened  his  Pollock.  At  this  hint  the 
others  slipped  out;  only  Jimmie  Mason  lin 
gered,  his  gaze  on  the  shadowy  hills  with 
their  faint  fringe  of  dark  green,  the  dregs  of 
his  pipe  purring  in  the  stillness.  Lyman's 
room-mate  was  somewhere  queening.  Ly- 
man  himself,  pretending  to  study,  looked  up 
from  time  to  time,  waiting  for  the  Sophomore 
to  unbosom  himself.  Frank  knew  the  symp 
toms. 

"Well,  Jimmie?"  he  said  at  length — one 
couldn't  study  with  that  going  on  and  Frank 
had  his  stint  to  finish. 

"It's  about  my  father." 

"Drinking  again?" 

Jimmie  only  nodded.  The  smoke  went  oux 
in  his  pipe;  he  knocked  the  ashes  from  it  and 
put  it  away  mechanically  in  the  common  pipe- 
rack  over  the  radiator. 

"Tell  me  about  it."  Frank  had  closed  his 
book,  and  was  leaning  back  in  his  tilted  chair, 
his  feet  braced  in  the  shelf  beneath,  his  hands 
clasped  over  his  knees. 

"Not  much  to  tell,  I  guess,  no  more  than 
you  know  already.  I  got  a  letter  from  the 
old  lady." 

"Your  grandmother,  eh?" 

"Yes.  She  says  something  must  be  done. 
'In  low  saloons,'  she  says,  and  I've  been  siz 
ing  it  up — and  Frank,  don't  you  think  I 
ought  to  go  home?" 


228  Stanford  Stories. 

A  silence  again,  with  Lyman's  alarm  clock 
ticking  placidly  on  the  table  between  them. 

It  had  come,  the  moment  to  bring  the  boy 
around;  Frank  had  waited  for  it  in  the  weeks 
since  he  had  known  the  story.  In  this  silence 
he  mapped  out  his  argument,  as  he  would 
have  prepared  a  brief. 

"How  much  has  your  father  ever  helped 
you,  Jimmie?" 

"Not  much.  We've  always  been  poor,  you 
know." 

"Because  he  drank?" 

"Yes,  he  never  could  keep  a  job  but  so 
long." 

"Not  even  when  you  were  small?" 

"I  wasn't  with  him  then.  When  my  mother 
got — when  she  left  him,  she  took  me  with 
her.  Then  she  died,  and  I  was  with  my 
grandmother  awhile,  then  I  lived  with  him 
until  I  came  here." 

"Are  you  very  fond  of  him?" 

"No,  Frank,  I'm  not;  not  a  bit.  He  never 
did  anything  for  my  mother  or  for  me,  to 
make  me." 

"I  don't  see  why  you  lived  with  him  then." 

"He'd  behave  himself  better.  I  had  a  sort 
of  influence  over  him.  He  was  afraid  of  me, 
or  ashamed,  or  something,  and  I  stuck  to 
him  to  keep  him  straight.  But,  oh!  I  hated  it, 
and  when  he  got  going  all  right,  I  cut  loose 
and  came  here." 


Crossroads.  229 

"What  sort  is  the  old  lady?  W.  C.  T.  U. 
and  all  that  kind  of  thing,  I  suppose?" 

"Something  on  that  order." 

The  Oracle  leaned  forward  until  his  chest 
came  almost  between  his  bent  knees,  as  was 
his  wont  when  he  clinched  his  arguments. 

"I  suppose  you've  never  figured  it  out  that 
people  of  her  way  of  thinking  would  call  what 
little  drinking  you  do  at  Mayfield  'drinking 
in  low  saloons?' ' 

By  his  silence  Jimmie  admitted  that  there 
was  something  in  the  position.  Frank  fol 
lowed  up  his  lead. 

"So  it  may  be  nothing  very  bad  after  all. 
But  let's  suppose  it  is;  suppose  he  has  slid 
back  into  the  worst  of  his  old  ways,  is  it  going 
to  pay  to  go  on  and  break  things  all  up  for 
yourself,  for  the  purpose  of  trying  to  bolster 
him  up?  It  seems  to  me  you  would  let  your 
enthusiasm  get  away  with  your  common 
sense.  But  it's  your  business,  Jimmie.  Only 
the  thing  that  gets  me  is  the  blooming  use- 
lessness  of  it  all.  What  can  you  do?" 

"I  can  work." 

"You  could  do  that  before  you  came  here. 
You  see,  it  was  all  right  before,  when  your 
plans  weren't  formed.  Now  it  means  not 
only  his  Sliding  back,  but  yours  too.  You 
know  as  well  as  I  do  that  a  half-baked  man 
isn't  worth  a  whoop,  not  a  solitary  whoop. 
You've  got  to  drop  down  into  mediocrity 


23°  Stanford  Stories. 

just  when  you  are  on  the  way  up  to  some 
thing.  And  after  sacrificing  yourself,  per 
haps,  it  will  have  been  for  nothing.  You 
can't  cure  that  thing  in  a  month,  nor  a  year, 
nor  two  years.  If  he  is  drinking,  regular  and 
hard,  you've  got  to  catch  him  and  stay  with 
him  just  about  as  long  as  he  lives.  You  can't 
leave  him  after  you  get  him  on  his  feet,  or 
he'll  go  right  back.  You  know  that  from  ex 
perience,  don't  you?" 

"Yes,"  said  Jimmie.  The  Senior's  words 
came  to  him  as  a  relief.  He  had  begun  the 
conversation  with  the  feeling  that  the  thing 
for  him  to  do  was  to  go  home,  and  dreading 
lest  Lyman  should  think  so,  too.  Now  Frank 
showed  him  the  folly  of  such  a  step,  and 
Frank  knew  about  things. 

"It  means  a  knockout  to  your  ambition," 
went  on  Lyman,  "the  spoiling  of  yourself,  and 
you  propose  to  do  this  for  a  man  you  don't 
care  for?  I  don't  understand." 

"He  is  my  father,"  said  the  Sophomore. 
This  reason  had  seemed  ample,  when  he  was 
thinking  it  over  alone;  it  did  not  sound  so 
convincing  now. 

"And  suppose  he  is,  do  you  have  to  pay 
for  that?  No,  Jimmie,  that's  a  fine  senti 
mental  view  of  it  that  won't  help  either  of 
you.  Let  him  wait.  You  have  the  right  to 
do  it.  He  can  wait  two  years,  till  you've  had 
your  chance.  If  it  has  been  going  on  all  this 


Crossroads.  2ll 

time,  two  years  won't  be  long,  and  then  when 
you're  through  and  ready  to  do  something, 
there'll  be  sense  in  it;  there  isn't  now. — " 

Just  then  Freshman  Halleck,  who  had  a 
genius  for  poking  in  where  he  was  not 
wanted,  knocked  and  entered  with  Encina 
abruptness,  for  Frank  had  not  locked  the 
door.  He  made  his  stay  so  long  that  Ly- 
man,  with  his  thoughts  on  his  unfinished 
work,  said: 

"Well,  good-night,  you  fellows,"  as  a  gen 
tle  hint,  and  Jimmie  withdrew. 

The  fog  had  not  yet  come  into  the  valley 
when  the  Sophomore  opened  the  window, 
down  in  his  own  room;  it  was  reaching  out, 
still  driven  before  a  lazy  wind.  Indistinctly 
the  singing  of  the  Glee  Club,  rolling  home 
from  practice  in  the  Quad,  came  through 
the  damp  twilight.  Jimmie  had  been  with 
them  on  the  Christmas  trip,  tasting  a  social 
life  he  had  known  nothing  of  till  then.  Now 
they  were  going  to  run  him  for  leader  next 
year.  He  sat  on  his  window  ledge  listening. 
The  side  of  the  Hall  stretched  away  from  him, 
four  tiers  of  light  where  the  fellows  ^vere  at 
work  or  were  bumming  away  the  week-night. 
Through  the  opened  windows  came  the  low 
tone  of  many  conversations,  stirred  now  and 
then  by  a  "rough-house"  note.  A  coyote 
barked  somewhere  among  the  hills,  a  re- 


232  Stanford  Stories. 

minder  of  the  nearness  of  our  higher  life  to 
the  life  universal.  Jimmie  took  a  long,  deep 
breath  of  the  moist  air,  as  though  he  would 
draw  it  all,  all  unto  himself.  This  was  his 
life,  he  had  made  it  for  himself,  and  he  loved 
it,  he  loved  it!  He  had  no  part  any  longer 
with  what  had  come  before  it.  All  these  were 
in  shadow,  the  people  and  things  of  his  bitter 
childhood.  The  fellows  up  there  in  the  lighted 
rooms  had  homes  somewhere;  there  was  a 
feed-box  being  opened  even  then,  perhaps, 
at  some  study  table;  they  were  thinking  of 
vacation,  most  of  them,  and  of  other  places. 
But  this  was  home  to  Mason,  this  wide,  soft 
campus,  with  the  sandstone  arching  over  it 
and  bounded  by  shaggy  hills,  the  only  place 
he  could  call  his  own.  Most  of  the  laughing 
people  who  lived  here  with  him  were  in  a 
dream  from  which  some  Commencement  Day 
would  wake  them.  To  Mason  it  was  reality. 
Yes,  Frank  Lyman  was  right.  Jimmie  was 
glad  he  had  asked  him.  The  idea  of  going 
away  had  been  a  thoughtless  impulse,  an  im 
mature  judgment.  He  would  stay — for  the 
two  years. 

He  took  off  his  coat  and  opened  a  book 
under  the  lamp;  but  a  face  came  and  settled 
between  him  and  the  page,  a  bloated  face 
with  irresolute  lips  that  would  not  move  from 
the  black  and  white  before  him,  but  flickered 


Crossroads.  233 

there  and  mocked  him,  until  finally  he  closed 
the  book,  and,  without  looking  out  again  on 
the  campus,  turned  into  bed. 


II. 

It  was  a  quiet  night  outside.  The  last 
spring  rain  was  over;  the  dry,  deadening  Cali 
fornia  summer  had  begun  its  advance  on  the 
land.  Already,  the  green  of  the  hills  had 
faded  into  a  lighter  hue,  a  forerunner  of  a 
yellow  June  and  a  brown  July.  The  campus 
was  astir  with  the  movement  of  a  Friday 
night.  Shadowy  figures,  in  couples,  came  and 
passed  down  the  fairy-land  vistas  of  the  Quad 
rangle;  the  'busses  deposited  the  elite  of  Palo 
Alto  at  the  door  of  the  Alpha  Nus  who  had 
said  that  they  would  be  at  home;  noises  of 
all  kinds,  from  not  unmusical  singing  to 
plainly  unmusical  whoops,  exhaled  from 
every  pore  of  the  Hall.  The  piano  on  the 
lobby  was  groaning  out  a  waltz  from  its  few 
attuned  keys  and  the  little  space  between  the 
big  rug  and  the  rail  overlooking  the  dining- 
room  was  packed  with  forms  in  various  con 
ditions  of  negligee,  dancing  earnestly  and 
painfully. 

Only  one  room,  and  that  generally  the 
center  of  disturbance,  "sported  the  oak." 
Jimmie  Mason  sat  in  the  knockery,  with  a 
book  cocked  up  in  front  of  him,  and  made  a 


234  Stanford  Stories. 

pretense  of  studying,  but  his  thoughts  wan 
dered.  Finally  he  threw  his  work  aside  al 
together,  and  looked  at  the  little  patches  of 
starlight  visible  between  the  branches  of  the 
tree  outside.  It  was  so  plain,  the  thing  he 
ought  to  do,  in  justice  to  himself,  that  he  had 
thought  the  dream  of  the  other  thing  a  fancy 
that  had  passed  and  had  been  put  away  with 
the  notions  of  his  prep-days.  And  yet  he  had 
'  found  no  peace  in  his  new  decision.  His 
plans  for  next  year,  his  work  in  class,  his  new 
success  with  certain  ventures  which  after  two 
years  of  the  hardest,  closest  pinching,  had  put 
within  his  reach  the  means  to  gratify  a  few 
little  whims,  to  indulge  in  a  few  things  his 
poverty  had  hitherto  forbidden  him — a  few 
common  things  the  men  around  him  en 
joyed,  and  the  lack  of  which  he  had  ever 
concealed  even  from  himself — all  these  were 
made  footless  by  the  ache  in  the  bottom  of  his 
soul.  And,  as  he  sat  and  pondered  on  it,  a 
hard,  dull  resentment  which  he  had  hitherto 
kept  down  by  sheer  will  power  rose  above  his 
other  thoughts  and  claimed  admission  as  a 
reality.  His  father  had  no  right  to  do  this 
thing  to  him.  He  was  an  old  man;  his  chance 
was  past,  given  up  for  a  few  barrels,  more  or 
less,  of  distilled  spirits.  It  was  for  this  that 
the  something  inside  was  asking  him  to  for 
feit  the  chance  he  had  made  for  himself.  The 
University  was  his  home.  His  father  had 


Crossroads.  235 

done  nothing  toward  this.  The  laundry 
agency  had  provided  a  living,  and  the  broad 
democracy  of  the  college  had  done  the  rest 
for  him.  He  was  one  of  the  "prominent 
men"  now,  a  somebody,  as  he  had  never  been 
and  never  could  be  in  the  travesty  of  home 
that  had  been  his  father's  giving.  Upon  his 
life  here  rested  the  possibilities  of  the  future 
toward  which  he  looked  dreamingly  some 
times  when  his  notes  were  written  up,  and  the 
laundry  accounts  checked.  Assuredly,  his 
father  had  no  claim  on  this;  to  admit  it  would 
be  an  injustice  to  himself,  to  his  ambition, 
and  to  his  work.  And  yet  this  face  which  had 
come  between  him  and  his  book  the  first  night 
the  fight  had  been  on  must  haunt  him  always 
in  the  hour  when  his  tide  was  turning. 

A  thump  on  the  window  which  opened  on 
the  front  piazza,  recalled  him  from  his  reverie. 
A  dozen  feet  were  shuffling  on  the  stones 
outside,  and  a  ruddy  face  glowed  over  the 
sash. 

"Go  away,  Pellams.  Got  to  plug,"  said 
Jimmie,  hastily  resuming  his  book. 

"Relate  your  predicaments  to  a  constable," 
said  Pellams.  "There's  going  to  be  a  Thirst 
ing  Bee  at  the " 

"Can't  go.     Got  to  work  on  my  thesis." 

"Relate  that  to  your  Uncle  Adderclaws. 
Tumble  out,  now." 

Jimmie  only  shook  his  head.     There  was  a 


336  Stanford  Stories. 

conference  outside  in  whispers;  then  the  gang 
withdrew  with  suspicious  alacrity.  Two  min 
utes  later,  the  lock  grated  with  the  cautious 
insertion  of  a  key,  and  the  mob  rushed  in; 
Jimmie  had  forgotten  the  passkey,  for  whose 
possession  Pellams  had  held  up  the  Jap. 

"Ah,  say,  get  out  of  here,  you  fellows.  I'm 
digging." 

"I  know  it.  And  you're  going  to  stop. 
Gentlemen  adventurers"  —  here  Pellams 
mounted  a  chair — "James  Mason,  our  small 
but  thirsty  friend,  has  sourball.  Now,  I  ask 
you,  gentlemen,  what  is  the  universal  cure  for 
his  affliction?" 

"Beer!"  The  unanimity  of  the  response 
would  have  done  credit  to  a  Roman  mob. 

"Quite  right  ye  are,  my  merry  retainers. 
And  will  ye,  in  loving  kindness  to  him,  apply 
that  remedy?" 
"We  will!  We  will!" 
"Well  said,  me  liegemen.  Jimmie,  move 
along!"  and  Pellams  fell  to  strolling  around 
the  room  and  criticizing  its  collection  of 
stolen  signs  with  the  air  of  one  who  has 
discharged  his  business  and  stands  at  ease. 
The  rest  threw  themselves  on  the  man  with 
sourball  and  were  for  tearing  off  his  outer 
garments  and  forcing  on  his  sweater,  but 
Lyman  by  some  occult  means  of  his  own  got 
the  boy  aside.  One  never  knew  how  Frank 
managed  the  gang;  it  was  always  that  way; 


Crossroads.  237 

his  methods  never  obtruded  themselves,  all 
one  saw  was  results. 

"I  wouldn't  if  I  were  you,"  said  he;  "they 
won't  understand  it,  and  it  doesn't  do  you  any 
good — this  sort  of  thing.  Better  jolly  up." 

The  Sophomore  did  not  speak;  he  only 
shook  his  head. 

"I  know  what  you're  holding  back  for," 
went  on  the  other;  "but  going  down  there 
isn't  the  same  sort  of  thing;  really,  it  isn't." 

Jimmie  started  a  little,  inside,  as  he  realized 
for  the  first  time  the  base  of  his  aversion  to 
dragging  himself  out  on  the  trip.  He  turned, 
half-mechanically,  and  began  tugging  at  his 
collar.  That  Phantom  should  never  come 
between  him  and  one  single  thing  he  wanted 
to  do.  It  might  embitter  it  all,  but  it  could 
never  prevent  him  from  the  outward  act.  He 
threw  his  tie  over  a  chair  and  took  off  his  coat 
with  unnecessary  emphasis  in  the  movement. 
Ten  minutes  later  he  was  treading  the  prim 
rose  path  of  dalliance  with  an  arm  around 
"Nosey"  Marion. 

There  was  a  cool  breeze  off  the  bay,  bring 
ing  the  scent  of  salt  water  along  with  the  odor 
of  spruce-trees.  A  voice  from  the  upper 
regions  of  the  Hall  called  out  to  the  caval 
cade,  crawling  through  the  half-darkness 
along  the  road: 

"He-ea,  you!     Bring  some  back  for  me!" 

A  dozen  windows  slammed  open  at  that, 


238  Stanfoid  Stories. 

and  twenty  throats  took  up  the  noise.  Pel- 
lams  was  for  answering,  but  Lyman  discreetly 
checked  him. 

Presently  they  swung  out  into  the  traveled 
road,  until  the  noises  of  the  Hall  were  only  a 
composite  buzz.  The  squad  was  lounging 
in  twos  and  three,  talking  athletics  or  hum 
ming  under  the  breath  march-songs  from  the 
Orpheum.  "Peg"  Langdon  stopped  at  the 
white  gate,  and  took  off  his  hat  to  the  cool  air. 

"This  road  down  is  the  best  thing  about 
Mayfield!" 

"Drop  the  Sequoia!"  cried  Pellams.  "Here, 
you  fellows,  hold  him!  We'll  have  that  in  a 
rondeau  or  something,  next  week,  if  you  don't 
hobble  the  muse!" 

The  editor  laughed.  It  is  better  to  be  joked 
about  your  own  special  forte  than  not  to  have 
it  mentioned,  so  he  was  not  displeased. 

"That's  what  the  bard  gets,"  said  he,  "for 
secreting  the  noxious  fluid  known  as  the 
'Sequoia'  verse.  But  you  can't  stop  the  secre 
tion.  Some  day,  I  am  going  to  write  a  Ballad 
of  the  Road  to  Mayfield — just  to  be  original." 

"And  you'll  kill  the  traffic." 

"Chain  the  poet!" 

"If  you  don't  choke  him,  he'll  get  reminis 
cent." 

These  from  half-a-dozen  voices  at  once. 

"Certainly  I  shall!"  declared  Langdon.  "A 
reminiscent  mood  is  the  proper  one  for  the 


Crossroads.  239 

road  to  Mayfield — just  as  you  have  to  have  an 
argumentative  one  on  the  road  back." 

"Did  you  ever  notice,"  observed  Dick,  "that 
every  Mayfield  time  has  a  sort  of  motif?  You 
have  a  central  idea,  and  you  expand  on  it,  like 
writing  paragraphs  for  English  Eight." 

"It's  up  to  you,  Mr.  Langdon.  Give  us  a 
motif  and  we'll  do  the  expanding,"  said 
Marion,  shying  a  pebble  at  a  gate  where  there 
was  a  dog  he  knew. 

"How  would  Jimmie's  sore-head  do?" 

Pellams  took  it  up  at  once.  "Death  to  the 
sore-head!  A  has  Mason!"  And  then,  being 
safely  away  from  the  Hall,  he  caught  up  the 
old  nonsense  air  that  has  split  student  throats 
this  century  long, 

"To  drive  dull  care  away!" 

And  Jimmie,  a  chum  beating  him  on  either 
side  to  exorcise  the  demon,  was  singing  as 
lustily  as  the  best  of  them  when  they  swung 
through  the  town  of  buried  ambitions  and  into 
the  shrine  of  Bacchus. 

"Gentlemen,  remember  the  motif!"  cried 
Pellams,  when  they  had  made  their  way 
through  the  barroom  loafers,  playing  with 
dingy  cards  at  the  dingier  tables.  The  expe 
dition  was  safely  stowed  in  the  back  room 
around  the  rough  table  with  its  carved  patch 
work  of  initials,  Greek  letters,  and  nicknames, 


*4°  Stanford  Stories. 

significant  or  obsolete,  according  to  a  man's 
perspective.  Pellams  assumed  instant  control. 

"We  will  now  turn  our  attention  to  the  se 
rious  business  of  the  evening.  Get  your 
places.  Hands  on  your  bottles!  Open — 
corks!  And  away  we  go."  The  party  drank 
in  silence. 

"Do  you  begin  to  improve,  James?  There 
is  a  trace  of  a  smile  in  the  left-hand  corner  of 
the  patient's  mouth.  Ruffle  up  his  hair  and 
give  him  another  while  we  have  him  going!" 

Someone  started  a  song,  and  they  had  an 
other  drink  to  punctuate  the  pause  between 
verses.  A  ruddier  shade  was  creeping 
towards  the  roots  of  Pellams'  hair;  Lyman, 
who  smiled  but  seldom,  was  grinning  across 
the  table  at  a  Sophomore  trying  to  flip 
cracker  crumbs  into  his  mouth. 

"This  is  a  tryout,"  said  Pellams.  "The  first 
man  that  balks  at  his  beer  will  drink  rasp 
berry  chasers  for  a  month.  Hey!  look  at 
'Nosey'  Marion  trying  to  shirk!" 

Sure  enough,  Marion,  who  tried  to  keep  up 
a  reputation  for  capacity  with  a  naturally  slim 
endowment,  was  slyly  pouring  his  last  potion 
into  an  empty  beer-case  behind  him.  They 
fell  upon  the  offender  forthwith,  whipped  him 
into  the  ranks  again,  and  resumed  their  seats, 
laughing  and  panting. 

"And  now  that  our  erring  brother  is  pun 
ished  and  forgiven — that's  as  good  a  phrase  as 


Crossroads.  24* 

I  ever  saw — punished  and  forgiven — stick  that 
in  the  Sequoia,  Pegasus" — Pellams  rambled 
on,  "we've  got  to  have  the  motif.  I  move 
from  the  chair  that  the  guest  of  the  evening 
gives  us  'My  Old  Kentucky  Home!'  Punish 
your  glass  and  tune  up,  Jimmie!" 

The  cry  went  on  until  Jimmie  had  to  re 
spond.  He  began  with  the  intention  of  sing 
ing  it  quite  carelessly,  because  there  was 
much  in  his  soul  that  night  that  he  dared  not 
show  before  them  all;  but  Jimmie  had  the  gift 
of  song  in  his  heart  as  in  his  voice,  and  he 
threw  himself  into  the  music  before  the  first 
stanza  was  half  done.  Only  once  before  had 
he  sung  the  song  as  he  did  to-night;  it  was  at 
last  Commencement,  when  he  sang  it  for  the 
Seniors  going  out  on  their  adventures,  and 
when  he  was  done  they  had  all  been  still  and 
quiet  like  men  who  have  seen  ghosts — as  per 
haps  they  had,  that  night,  the  phantoms  of 
men  and  times  haunting  certain  low,  arched 
buildings  they  were  to  see  no  more. 

"Then  my  old  Kentucky  home,  good-night!" 

Jimmie's  tender  baritone  floated  up  from 
the  table  wistfully  sweet,  and  shaken  a  little 
with  feeling,  for  the  trouble  of  the  week  just 
past  was  sweeping  into  it.  Lyman,  listening, 
knew  of  what  place  the  boy  was  singing,  and 
mentally  noted  that  he  had  better  be  thought- 


*42  Stanford  Stones. 

ful  of  the  youngster  during  the  rest  of  the 
term. 

The  fellows  were  quiet  for  a  moment  after 
they  had  droned  out  the  chorus,  each  one 
putting  his  own  meaning  into  that  sweet  old 
song  of  farewell,  and  then,  to  break  the 
charm,  a  small  voice  with  a  Spanish  roll  in  it, 
piped  "Tamales!"  at  the  crack  in  the  door. 

"Hey! — Lupe! — make  him  sing!" 

They  raided  the  stock  first,  and  rendered 
happy  with  the  jingle  of  silver  the  quaint  little 
remnant  of  the  race  who  named  their  valley 
for  the  blessed  Santa  Clara.  Then,  when  he 
had  counted  it  and  put  it  safely  away  with  the 
officious  assistance  of  Pellams  Rex,  they  set 
him  on  the  table  in  his  blue  overalls  and  over 
sized  hat  and  made  him  sing  for  them  in  his 
pathetic  treble,  "La  Paloma,"  and  for  encore, 
"Two  Leetle  Girl  een  Bloo."  Pellams  re 
moved  him  after  that,  claiming  that  Langdon 
was  about  to  tell  the  story  of  his  life,  which 
could  not  be  published  in  the  Sequoia. 

Jimmie  Mason  had  sat  there  all  this  time, 
taking  it  in  and  drinking  with  the  others,  but 
there  was  never  a  cloud  on  his  brain  nor  a 
waver  in  his  movements.  The  rest  of  them 
wandered  from  the  motif;  each  was  compos 
ing  a  fugue  of  his  own,  according  to  the  mould 
of  his  nature.  Scraps  of  their  conversation 
floated  in  on  him  between  songs — "Got  him 
just  below  the  knees — now!" — "and  the  differ- 


Crossroads.  243 

ence  between  me  and  a  tank  is  in  the  inferior 
receptivity — ain't  that  a  peach? — of  the  recep 
tacle" — "Now,  the  fallacy  of  the  original 
proposition,  as  Herbert  Spencer  hath  it,  lies 
in  the  expression  of  the  component  particu 
lars" — this  was  Langdon — "that  proves  that 
if  I  had  a  board  Pellams  would  be  summarily 
chastised" — "Put  it  down  and  order  up  an 
other,  here's  good  drink  going  stale" — 
"Whoa,  Pegasus,  old  hoss,  that's  my  tamale 
you  have  designs  on" — "and  cut  his  name 
there" — "sing  it  down!  This  is  to  break 
training  for  the  third  time" — "What's  the  mat 
ter  with ty-eight?" — All  this  came  in  on 

him,  as  he  watched  them  grow  from  geniality 
to  hilarity  and  then  on  toward  enthusiasm. 
They  had  forgotten  him;  only  now  and  then 
someone  shied  a  cracker  at  his  head  and  told 
him  to  "jolly  up." 

Another  drink,  and  the  patriotic  stage  was 
upon  them.  The  King  ordered  a  glass,  stand 
ing,  to  the  Team,  and  one  with  a  foot  on  the 
table  to  the  Captain,  and  one  with  both  feet 
on  the  table  and  glasses  to  the  ceiling  to  the 
Victory  next  fall.  Someone  started  the  yell; 
it  went  round  the  table.  Then  they  joined  in 
on  "Here's  to  Stanford  College,"  with  a  verse 
for  every  class  and  its  yell  at  the  end,  and 
before  they  were  done  there  were  three  howl 
ing  factions,  each  trying  to  cry  the  others 
down. 


244  Stanford  Stories. 

Frank  Lyman,  he  of  the  steady  head,  who 
was  quiet  or  hilarious  as  he  willed,  but  was 
never  beyond  the  point  where  he  willed  to  be, 
sat  watching  good-humoredly  from  his  cor 
ner,  and  noted  that  Jimmie  Mason's  voice  had 
risen  the  loudest,  and  that  he,  too,  had  for 
gotten  the  motif. 

Pellams  had  wandered  into  the  outer  room 
"to  bust  the  proprietor's  blamed  old  nickel- 
machine  and  get  even,"  leaving  the  disturb 
ance  to  subside  of  its  own  weight.  Coming 
back  suddenly  to  the  door,  he  cried:  "Hey, 
I've  got  'em!  The  raw  material  and  the  fin 
ished  product!  Let's  have  a  temperance  lec 
ture  from  Lyman." 

It  was  a  queer  group  at  the  door.  The 
half-gone  Pellams,  with  his  face  flushed  and 
his  hair  dishevelled,  in  one  of  his  hands  little 
Lupe,  hanging  to  an  empty  pail  and  between 
laughter  and  tears;  the  other  hand  tight  on 
the  collar  of  as  dirty,  as  unkempt,  and  as 
drunken  an  old  loafer  as  ever  hung  over  a 
Mayfield  bar.  Pellams  swung  the  ruin  in. 

"Now,  tell  us  how  you  got  that  fine,  large 
tee!"  said  the  tormentor.  "Orate  to  us,  Gen 
eral  Jackson!" 

The  old  man  braced  himself,  with  drunken 
dignity,  against  the  door. 

"You  young  fellows  c'n  make  fools  o'  your 
selves,"  he  said,  "but  you  can't  make  fool 
o'  me." 


Crossroads.  245 

"That's  all  right,  pardner — Nature  saved  us 
the  trouble  in  your  case,"  said  Pellams,  the 
thoughtless. 

The  clear  head  in  the  room — Lyman's  al 
ways — took  it  all  in;  Frank  made  a  step  to 
come  between  the  Junior  and  his  victim. 
Then  he  turned,  half-unconsciously,  toward 
Mason.  Jimmie  was  standing  with  his  hands 
on  the  table,  looking  straight  before  him,  and 
in  that  look  Frank  read  the  certainty  that  the 
case  was  out  of  his  control.  For  the  Face 
was  rising  before  Jimmie  Mason  once  more; 
it  had  twisted  itself  in  with  the  relaxed,  foolish 
features  before  him,  until  he  saw  his  father 
there,  a  mock  and  a  shame.  It  was  not  his 
father,  of  course — he  passed  his  hand  before 
his  eyes  as  though  to  clear  them — but  sup 
pose  that  somewhere  else  a  crowd  had  his 
father — and  he  not  there  to 

The  Angel  of  Pity,  or  the  Universal  Con 
science,  or  whatever  it  is  that  you  and  I  have 
learned  from  our  books  and  our  teachers  to 
put  as  our  symbol  of  the  belief  in  the  higher 
things,  wrote  upon  his  records  that  night  that 
a  prayer  had  gone  up,  for  the  first  time,  from 
the  dingy  back  room  of  the  Hotel  Mayfield. 

Pellams  had  the  old  man  singing  now,  in  a 
cracked,  maudlin  voice,  and  his  keeper  was 
beating  time  with  a  billiard  cue.  Then  the 
amateur  conductor  had  one  of  his  inspirations. 

"Hey,  a  trio!     The  event  of  the  evening! 


24<5  Stanford  Stories. 

General  Hardshell  Jackson,  Senor  Lupe  de 
Tamale,  and  the  renowned  lyric  barytone, 
James  Russell  Lowell  Mason,  will  combine  in 
a  grand  farewell  concert.  Ascend  the  plat 
form,  Senor!"  he  cried  to  the  Mexican  lad, 
who  stood,  wide-eyed,  in  a  corner.  Then  he 
gestured  wildly  toward  the  door. 

"Hey,  Jimmie,  come  back  here,"  he  called; 
"don't  let  him  out,  boys!" 

Jimmie  had  reached  the  door  when  Lyman 
caught  his  sleeve. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"Home." 

"You  mean  the  Hall?" 

Jimmie  pulled  free  of  the  Senior's  hand. 

"No!"  he  said.     "Home." 


A  SONG  CYCLE  AND  A 
PUNCTURE. 


A  Song  Cycle  and  a  Puncture. 

"And    I   learned   about   women   from    *er!" 

KIPLING. 

Six  Madonnas,  from  their  places  on  the 
Chapel  walls,  gazed  at  the  spectacle  of  a  stu 
dent  with  long  hair  and  energetic  manner 
drilling  a  chorus  of  young  men  and  women 
from  behind  the  preacher's  desk.  There  was 
no  visible  sign  of  agitation  on  the  part  of  the 
six  Madonnas,  though  an  operatic  re 
hearsal  in  Chapel  might  be  considered 
reason  enough.  To  be  sure,  one  of  them, 
with  her  feet  upon  a  crescent  moon,  kept  her 
eyes  fixed  religiously  on  the  ceiling,  but  this 
had  become  a  habit.  The  Madonnas  were 
not  surprised. 

The  early  years  of  the  University,  when 
there  was  no  assembly  hall  and  the  temporary 
chapel  was  used  for  everything  that  did  not 
demand  the  superior  accommodations  of  the 
men's  gymnasium,  had  prepared  them  for  any 
thing.  They  had  looked  calmly  down  upon 
student  farces  and  Wednesday  evening  prayer 
meetings,  professional  impersonations  and  bac 
calaureate  sermons.  Once,  there  had  been  a 
249 


2 5°  Stanford  Stories. 

German  farce  under  the  protection  of  the  Ger 
manic  Language  department,  by  a  company 
from  town,  a  boisterous  play  with  a  gigantic 
comedienne  in  a  short  skirt.  Beside  this  per 
formance,  Lillian  Arnold's  singing  a  love  duet 
with  Jack  Smith  was  nothing  very  shocking. 

Connor,  the  man  who  was  getting  up  the 
opera  for  the  benefit  of  the  Junior  Annual, 
waved  his  baton  gracefully  and  looked 
pleased.  The  rehearsal  had  gone  well  that 
afternoon,  and  now  Cap  Smith  was  singing 
with  creditable  expression  the  love  song  in  the 
last  act.  The  experience  of  Connor  told  him 
that  this  song  would  make  even  the  bleachers 
at  the  back  of  the  gymnasium  keep  a  respect 
ful  silence,  which  was  saying  a  good  deal. 
Smith  had  a  very  pretty  tenor,  redeeming  its 
lack  of  volume  by  a  sympathetic  quality  that 
was  decidedly  pleasant.  In  a  song  like  this, 
his  voice  came  out  well.  There  was  a  high 
note  at  the  end  to  be  taken  pianissimo  with 
something  else  that  signified  "as  though  you 
meant  it."  Smith  could  make  it  sound  so,  at 
any  rate.  One  girl  at  the  back  of  the  chorus 
always  said,  "Ah,"  under  her  breath  when  the 
song  was  ended  at  rehearsal. 

Lillian  Arnold,  who  played  opposite  Smith 
in  the  opera,  did  not  conceal  from  herself  the 
pleasure  she  took  in  the  part.  Long  before 
rehearsals  began,  she  had  spent  her  smiles 
upon  Connor  with  a  view  to  that  very  role. 


A   Song  Cycle  and  a  Puncture.    2Sl 

Miss  Arnold  was  a  young  person  who  knew 
the  things  she  wanted;  one  of  them  was  Smith. 
'Varsity  end,  champion  pole-vaulter,  Glee 
Club  tenor  and  Sophomore  president,  which 
means  principally  leading  the  cotillion,  he  was 
well  worth  a  girl's  trouble.  There  was  the 
more  glory  in  the  winning  of  this  capital  prize 
because  he  was  not  very  enthusiastic  about 
Roble.  There  was  somebody  up  in  town  who 
took  a  great  deal  of  his  blue  fraternity-paper. 
Lillian  Arnold  knew  about  the  girl  in  town, 
so  she  accepted  gracefully  what  the  gods  gave 
and  was  outwardly  content. 

The  gift  of  the  gods  was  Ted  Perkins,  whose 
vest  was  decorated  like  Cap's  and  who  had 
no  entanglements.  When  the  approach  of  the 
Sophomore  cotillion  set  Roble  agog  with  a 
pleasant  but  hardly  strong-minded  excitement, 
he  "asked  her."  Peace  of  mind  comes  natur 
ally  after  such  an  invitation  is  given  and  ac 
cepted;  on  rare  occasions  this  does  not  last. 

The  first  thing  that  occurred  to  ruffle  Miss 
Arnold's  complacency  was  a  chance  remark 
dropped  one  noon  by  Perkins  as  they  were 
strolling  home  obliquely  from  the  Quad. 

"Cap  isn't  going  to  lead  with  Miss  Martin, 
after  all,"  said  he. 

"Indeed!"  exclaimed  Lillian.  For  some  re 
mote  feminine  reason  the  announcement  was 
interesting. 

"'Her  family  has  gone  South  suddenly,  a 


252  Stanford  Stories. 

death  or  something.  Cap  is  all  broken  up 
about  it.  He  was  going  to  show  her  off  in 
style  that  night." 

"I  wonder  whom  he  will  ask,  now,"  she  said, 
as  though  it  didn't  matter  the  least  bit  in  the 
world. 

Down  somewhere  in  a  girl's  heart  lies  the 
gambler's  instinct.  Lillian  would  have  thrown 
away  then  and  there  the  certainty  of  Ned 
Perkins'  timely  invitation  for  the  torturing 
suspense,  the  alluring  chance,  that  attended  the 
Sophomore  president's  second  choice.  Per 
kins,  in  his  simple  masculine  dullness,  never 
guessed  this. 

"I  don't  believe  he  knows  yet;  he  wouldn't 
tell  over  at  the  house  if  he  did.  Another  plum 
for  unengaged  Roble." 

Perkins  would  have  been  less  at  ease  over 
the  condition  of  engaged  Roble  could  he  have 
looked  into  the  little  east  music-room  where 
Lillian  played  accompaniments,  and  Cap 
Smith,  leaning  over  a  wicker  chair,  went 
through  the  music  of  his  part.  These  cozy 
rehearsals  in  the  quiet  afternoons  had  resulted 
in  Smith's  asking  himself,  during  a  cut  home 
through  the  Quad,  why  he  had  never  noticed 
Lillian  Arnold  in  particular.  Connor,  the  di 
rector,  had  a  keener  eye,  evidently.  She  was 
pretty,  dashing  and  real  good  fun.  Perkins 
was  entitled  to  respect  for  his  selection.  Lil 
lian  was  "all  right;"  this  is  a  masculine  term 


A  Song  Cycle   and  a  Puncture.    2S3 

which  may  mean  anything  from  mild  approval 
to  the  rapture  of  "just  one  girl."  The  mild  in 
terpretation,  of  course,  is  to  be  put  upon 
Smith's  use  of  the  term,  even  after  he  had  been 
to  Roble  two  evenings.  Their  talk  was  about 
the  opera,  nothing  further,  and  when  he  had 
taken  his  high  note  with  just  the  proper  emo 
tional  slur,  they  both  laughed.  To  be  honest, 
there  had  been  one  chat  on  the  moonlit  steps 
of  the  Museum,  but  all  of  this  went  down  on 
the  blue  fraternity-paper  among  other  con 
fidences. 

One  afternoon,  in  the  middle  of  a  Spring 
time  walk,  Smith  gave  utterance  to  a  decision 
concerning  which  he  had  already  written,  duti 
fully,  to  an  interested  party  in  the  South.  They 
had  passed  the  willow-fringed  bank  of  Lagu- 
nita,  the  red  boathouse,  the  double  avenue  of 
young  pines,  and,  crossing  into  the  back  road, 
strolled  down  to  the  low  gate  opposite  the 
Farm;  this  they  climbed  and  came  into  a  little 
hollow  where  knowing  people  find  yellow  vio 
lets.  He  had  just  given  her  a  frank  compli 
ment. 

"You  are  the  best  fence-taker  I  ever  saw  for 
a  girl." 

"That's  one  practical  result  of  an  hour's 
credit  in  gym-work,"  she  laughed.  "Some 
times,  on  lovely  days  like  this,  I  feel  almost 
as  though  I  could  pole-vault  the  way  you  do. 
It  must  be  glorious  to  go  sailing  over  the  bar." 


254  Stanford  Stories. 

"And  hear  it  come  clattering  down  after 
you?" 

They  sat  on  the  soft,  new  grass,  and  Lillian 
caught,  one  after  another,  the  shy  yellow  faces 
peering  at  her  through  the  long  leaves.  She 
looked  so  spring-like,  so  much  a  part  of  the 
fresh,  young  landscape  in  its  robes  of  early 
February,  as  she  half  reclined  to  reach  out  for 
a  blossom  larger  and  yellower  than  the  rest — 
a  pose  that  she  knew  was  good — that  the 
Sophomore  president  put  an  end  to  suspense. 

"I  had  expected  to  lead  the  cotillion  with 
Miss  Martin,"  he  began,  "but  she  has  gone 
South,  so  I'm  badly  left.  I'm  afraid  you  are 
engaged  for  it,  aren't  you?" 

Lillian  gazed  fixedly  at  the  white  cupola  on 
a  stockfarm  building.  Her  heart  was  some 
where  deep  in  hill-grass.  She  was  the  most 
luckless  girl  in  the  whole  college!  The  oppor 
tunity  of  her  Sophomore  year  had  come  too 
late.  It  was  bitter  enough  for  tears. 

"I  had  promised  it  to  Mr.  Perkins,"  she 
said,  irresolutely. 

"I  was  afraid  so.  Of  course,  it  was  awfully 
late  to  ask  you;  but  I  would  rather  go  with 
you  than  with  any  of  the  others,  so  I  ven 
tured." 

It  was  a  desperate  moment  for  Lillian. 

"I  would  rather  go  with  you,  too,"  she  said, 
gazing  up  at  him. 


A  Song  Cycle  and  a  Puncture.     255 

"I'm  sure  I  wish  you  could,"  he  said,  with 
sincerity.  She  was  at  her  prettiest  that  day. 

"I  will  anyway,"  she  declared. 

"But  Ted " 

"I  don't  care,"  she  went  on,  "it  was  only  that 
he  asked  me  first.  Couldn't  I  cut  it  and  go 
with  you?  He  ought  to  understand  that  I 
have  a  right  to  change  my  mind." 

Smith  watched  the  antics  of  a  gopher  for  a 
full  minute  before  he  replied.  Although  Per 
kins  had  said  nothing  to  him  of  his  intentions 
regarding  the  dance — the  two  had  few  con 
fidences — Cap  had  held  his  theories.  Still,  he 
deemed  he  had  a  chance.  Being  a  Sophomore, 
he  believed  that  he  was  thoroughly  acquainted 
with  the  co-educated  sex  and  all  their  wiles  and 
guiles;  but  a  feeling  of  repulsion  toward  this 
frank  readiness  to  throw  down  another  man, 
one  of  his  own,  too,  drowned  his  sense  of 
self-satisfaction  at  finding  himself  preferred. 

"Of  course,  you  and  Ted  must  arrange  all 
that,"  he  said,  and  turned  the  conversation. 

Cap's  lack  of  confidential  relations  with 
Perkins  did  not  stand  in  the  way  of  his  men 
tioning  the  affair  to  him  that  night  after  din 
ner. 

"I  thought  you  ought  to  know  it,  Ted,"  he 
concluded.  "Of  course,  you  will  do  as  you 
please  about  the  matter,  only  I  shall  not  take 
her." 


2S6  Stanford  Stories. 

"You  don't  think  for  a  moment  that  I  still 
intend  to,  do  you?"  asked  Perkins,  fiercely. 

"I  don't  believe  I'd  blame  you  exactly  if 
you  backed  out,"  said  the  complacent  Sopho 
more;  "but,  of  course,  it's  none  of  my  funeral 
now;  I'm  only  sorry  I  happened  to  ask  her 
myself,  and  start  the  trouble." 

"I  think  I'll  walk  home  with  her  after  re 
hearsal,"  said  Perkins. 

"Well,  I  shan't  say  anything  about  it  one 
way  or  the  other,"  said  Smith,  and  he  started 
toward  the  Gym  with  a  pleasasnt  sense  of  hav 
ing  galled  somebody  a  bit. 

Meanwhile,  Lillian  had  eaten  her  dinner 
with  relish.  The  prospect  of  trouble  with 
Perkins  did  not  worry  her  in  the  least.  Per 
kins  had  been  rather  a  convenience,  and  to 
lead  the  cotillion  with  Jack  Smith  was  a  de 
light  that  entirely  divested  the  other  man  of 
all  importance.  The  rehearsal  went  through 
with  a  dash;  Lillian  was  all  animation  and 
witchery,  and  the  love-scene  was  perfectly 
acted,  though  Ted  Perkins  sat  glowering  in 
the  privileged  audience.  Cap  Smith  took  his 
high  note  with  a  tenderness  of  voice  and  ges 
ture  that  moved  Connor,  the  leader  (he  was 
also  stage-manager  and  chief  electrician),  to 
call  out,  "Good  boy,  Cap,"  and  to  shake  his 
carefully  untrimmed  hair  in  approval. 

After  rehearsal,  the  tenor  slipped  away  just 


A  Song  Cycle  and  a  Puncture.     257 

as  Perkins,  with  an  artificial  smile,  ap 
proached  Lillian. 

The  Sophomore  was  in  bed  when  Per 
kins  came  into  his  room. 

"What  did  you  do  about  it?"  Cap  asked,  to 
start  things. 

"I  simply  said  I  wanted  to  be  excused  from 
taking  her  to  the  cotillion." 

"What  reason  did  you  give?" 

"None." 

"But  you  had  to  give  some  explanation." 

"She  didn't  ask  for  any.  She  guessed  it, 
probably." 

"What  did  she  say?  Try  to  smooth  it 
over?" 

"No,  nothing,  except  that  she  was  sorry, 
and  that  she  would  have  liked  to  go  with  me." 

"Humph,"  sniffed  Cap.  "I'll  bet  she  was 
afraid  I  hadn't  said  anything  to  you  about  it, 
and  she  wouldn't  give  herself  away  as  long  as 
you  didn't  kick  up  a  row.  Now  I  suppose 
she  expects  me  to  take  her." 

"That's  where  she  was  keen,  all  right;  she 
never  breathed  a  word  about  you;  only 
made  me  feel  like  two-bits  in  a  fog  for  hav 
ing  turned  her  down." 

"If  I  had  been  you  I  would  have  roasted 
her  right  there,  fired  the  whole  string  at  her." 

This  was  the  point  for  which  the  jilted  man 
had  come  into  Cap's  room. 

"No,"  said  he,  "you  said  you  wouldn't  take 


«58  Stanford  Stories. 

her  either,  and  I  thought  that  would  punish 
her  better  than  having  any  scene  with  me. 
She'll  know  I  have  had  my  innings." 

This  took  Smith  where  he  lived,  but  he 
put  on  a  cheerful  front,  perforce: 

"Well,  I'll  crawl  gracefully  out  of  it,  to 
morrow,"  said  he.  "I  suppose  she'll  be  hop 
ping  when  she  thinks  it  over." 

Perkins  went  up  to  his  room  satisfied. 

When  Cap  Smith  caught  Miss  Arnold  at 
the  post-office,  he  began  to  find  that  it  was 
easier  to  plan  a  graceful  crawling  out  than  to 
execute  the  movement. 

"I  shall  have  to  take  back  what  I  said  yes 
terday  about  the  cotillion,"  he  began,  cleverly 
guiding  her  toward  Roble,  "because,  you  see, 
it  wouldn't  be  just  square  to  Ted,  would  it? 
He  might  feel  hurt,  and  I  wouldn't  have  that. 
We  must  have  six  dances,  though,  anyway." 

This,  assuredly,  would  show  her.  Unfor 
tunately,  Lillian  was  either  dull  or  desperate. 

"But  he  released  me  last  night." 

"Did  he?"  said  Jack.  He  had  started  all 
wrong. 

"Yes,  we  settled  it  all  very  well;  he  didn't 
seem  to  care  in  the  least,  he  is  so  good-na 
tured."  She  looked  as  serene  as  the  sky 
above  her,  although  she  was  beginning  to 
Lave  biting  suspicions.  "So  it's  all  right." 

Cap  Smith's  feet  had  become  tangled  in 
crawling;  he  kicked  out  recklessly. 


A  Song  Cycle  and  a  Puncture.    2S9 

"No,  it's  not  all  right.  I  don't  believe  in  a 
girl's  treating  a  fellow  like  that,  and  I  won't 
be  a  party  to  it." 

"Why  did  you  ask  me,  then?"  she  chal 
lenged.  "To  tempt  me  because  you  happened 
to  be  president  and  a  girl  loves  to  lead?" 

"I'm  not  so  mean  as  that.  How  could  I 
know  Perkins  had  asked  you.  He  hadn't  told 
me." 

"I  suppose  you  told  him  about  it?" 

"Yes,  I  thought  that  I  ought  to." 

"After  telling  me  that  I  might  arrange  it. 
It  was  my  business." 

"I  knew  how  you  would  do  it,  and  I  wasn't 
willing  that  Ted  should  be  cut  that  way." 

"What  a  lovely  friendship!"  said  Lillian. 
She  was  much  vexed. 

Smith  did  not  reply  at  once.  The  beauty  of 
his  friendship  with  Perkins  did  not  strike  him 
very  heavily  at  the  moment. 

"At  any  rate,  under  the  circumstances  I 
don't  feel  that  I  can  take  you  to  the  cotillion." 

"Don't  flatter  your — "  Lillian  was  too 
angry  to  speak  without  crying,  so  she  went 
into  the  Hall  abruptly. 

With  the  approach  of  Washington's  Birth 
day,  the  rage  of  Miss  Arnold  grew.  Inas 
much  as  everyone  took  it  for  granted  that 
she  was  going  with  Perkins,  it  was  not  likely 
that  she  would  be  asked  again,  instead,  late 
beginners,  running  cards  for  themselves  and 


260  Stanford  Stories. 

other  people,  asked  her  for  dances,  and  rather 
than  admit  her  predicament  she  let  them  fill 
her  card. 

The  afternoon  of  the  cotillion  she  went  to 
bed  and  was  ill  for  a  day;  then  she  appeared 
at  the  final  rehearsal  with  a  smiling  face  and 
a  soul  full  of  wrath.  She  had  very  little  td 
say  to  Smith,  but  otherwise  she  showed  no 
resentment,  and  her  acting  was  as  good  as 
ever.  One  wiser  than  Cap  Smith  would  have 
augured  ill  from  her  fair  seeming,  a  less  con 
fident  man  would  have  been  on  his  guard; 
but  he  had  forgotten  all  that  he  had  ever 
read  about  the  fury  of  women  scorned,  and 
he  went  to  his  doom  unconscious. 

The  Gym  had  never  held  a  bigger  audience, 
and  the  opera,  as  usual,  was  proving  itself  the 
greatest  success  in  the  annals  of  Stanford 
theatricals;  the  show  was  so  inoffensively 
proper,  Connor  declared  with  a  sigh,  that  it 
was  disgusting.  No  hitch  or  jar  marred  the 
perfect  running  of  the  performance,  and  the 
conductor,  directing  the  scene-shifting  be 
tween  acts,  stopped  now  and  then  to  shake 
hands  with  himself.  The  borrowed  scenery 
almost  fitted;  there  was  no  wait  of  more  than 
half  an  hour;  very  few  of  the  chorus  got  out 
of  tune;  the  costumes  had  been  expunged  by 
a  board  of  lady  managers  and  declared  offi 
cially  to  have  no  Said  Ppsha  tendencies;  the 
leading  ladies  were  actually  keeping  their 


A  Song  Cycle  and  a  Puncture.    26t 

tempers;  things  moved  on  as  smoothly  as 
though  the  Fates  were  deadening  suspicion  in 
order  to  make  the  coming  catastrophe  the 
more  overwhelming. 

The  third  act  drew  on.  The  low  comedian 
had  just  finished  joshing  back  and  forth  with 
the  bleachers,  whose  chorus  work  had 
equalled,  in  some  respects,  that  on  the  stage. 
A  soft  light  began  to  illumine  the  painted 
heavens,  and  a  three-hundred-candle-power 
Luna,  the  pride  and  joy  of  Connor's  heart, 
rose  in  wavering  majesty.  The  house  was 
quiet  now,  listening  to  Smith's  solo  to  Lillian 
in  the  moonlit  garden.  The  music  swept 
softly  on  to  the  close  of  the  song.  As  Jack 
took  a  deep  breath  for  his  tender  love-note, 
the  note  that  was  to  make  men  sigh  and 
women  quiver,  Lillian  leaned  closer  to  him, 
as  if  drawn  by  the  caressing  sweetness  in  his 
voice,  and  one  round,  white  arm  stole  about 
his  neck  in  the  prettiest  gesture  imaginable. 
No  one  knew  that  with  the  other  hand  she 
had  quickly  drawn  out  the  big  black  pin  that 
held  the  flowers  on  her  breast.  One  wicked 
jab,  and  the  precious  high  note  broke  in  a 
wild  "ouch"  of  pain. 

The  bleachers  laughed  uproariously. 


BANNISTER'S  "SCOOP." 


Bannister's  "Scoop." 

"To  be  loyal  to  Stanford,  by  word  and  deed,  always,  by  silence  even 
when  speech  were  disloyal." 

When  one  of  the  coveted  jobs  in  the  Library 
went  finally  to  Bannister,  the  few  who  knew 
his  story  judged  that  university  authorities  are 
not  always  ungrateful.  Bannister  himself  had 
told  nothing,  and  he  was  too  glad  over  being 
freed  a  second  time  from  the  drudgery  of 
waiting  on  table  to  wonder  whether  it  meant 
reward  or  merely  luck.  He  had  no  thought, 
at  least,  that  a  simple  case  of  college  loyalty 
might  come  before  the  Higher  Powers. 

But  this  is  the  story: 

The  big  dining  room  of  the  Stanford  Inn  was 
abustle  with  the  racket  of  dinner  time.  There 
had  been  a  preliminary  football  game  with  an 
athletic  club  on  the  Campus  that  afternoon, 
ending  in  a  College  victory  that  gave  great 
promise  for  the  season,  wherefore  the  room 
was  jubilant  and  noisy.  The  Senior  table  at 
the  far  end  was  setting  the  pace,  carried  by 
exultation  beyond  its  wonted  dignity;  they 
cheered  the  coach  and  the  Varsity  men  as  they 
entered,  even  bandying  unison  jokes  with  the 
Sophomores.  The  noise  in  the  room  rose  to 
concert  pitch  when  the  captain  came  in,  a 
wild,  composite  roar  made  up  of  stamping 


266  Stanford  Stories. 

and  clapping  and  of  shuffling  feet  and  ending 
with  three  times  three  cheers  for  him  and  the 
team.  The  student  waiters  stopped  midcourse 
and  laid  down  their  trays  to  join  in ;  the  pan 
try  men,  sordid  professionals  from  the  city, 
stuck  their  heads  from  behind  the  kitchen 
screen  and  smiled  broadly  at  the  racket. 

Of  all  the  men  in  the  dining  room  that 
evening  student  waiter  No.  4  was  the  only 
one  who  did  not  stop  to  join  in  or  to  listen. 
He  had  just  taken  an  order  when  the  uproar 
greeted  the  captain ;  he  avoided  a  half  a  dozen 
waving  hands  and  arms  with  something  like 
irritation  on  his  firm,  stolid  features  and  sidled 
in  past  the  screen  without  looking  backward. 
Presently  he  emerged  with  arms  and  tray 
loaded  and  began  to  deposit  orders,  quietly, 
silently,  without  hurry  or  enthusiasm.  This 
done,  he  stepped  back  to  the  kitchen  door  to 
wait  for  a  newcomer  at  his  tables. 

And  he  stood  there,  with  uninterested  eyes 
on  the  area  of  his  work,  student  waiter  No.  5 
joined  him. 

"Well,  Bannister,  you're  through  with  this 
ham-and  deal !" 

"Yes,"  answered  Bannister.  He  showed  no 
especial  enthusiasm;  he  only  stated  the  fact 
impartially. 

"Mighty  glad  to  be  out  of  it,  I  suppose?" 
said  the  other. 

"It  ought  to  take  less  time,"  answered  Ban 
nister  with  precision. 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  267 

"I  think  you're  blamed  lucky,"  said  No.  5 — 
he  was  a  Sophomore  and  talkative — "I'm  sick 
of  hash  slinging  and  I'd  just  as  soon  sling  ink 
for  the  Herald  at  forty  per  for  a  while.  How 
did  you  make  the  riffle,  anyway?" 

Bannister  showed  the  first  sign  of  interest  as 
he  said,  with  the  shade  of  a  smile : 

"Grafted  it." 

Another  guest  came  in  and  Bannister  rushed 
for  the  order.  Student  waiter  No.  5  took  up 
the  conversation  with  No.  7,  conveniently  idle. 

"Say,  do  you  suppose  that  he  can  hold  down 
that  job?" 

No.  7  laughed  a  jealous  little  laugh,  answer 
ing: 

"I'll  bet  he  don't  hold  it  a  month.  He's  a 
warm  spectacle  for  a  newspaper  correspond 
ent  !  Why,  he  don't  know  he's  living.  I'll  bet 
he  hasn't  been  out  to  football  practice  twice 
since  he's  been  here.  He  never  goes  to  the  big 
game.  He  might  as  well  be  a  Jap,  for  all  he 
mixes.  The  Herald  fired  Alger  because  he 
was  too  slow.  What  do  you  suppose  they'll 
do  with  a  back  number  like  Bannister?  Gee! 
the  luck  of  some  people!  I  wish  I  had  his 
chance !" 

With  these  pleasant  hopes  for  his  future 
from  the  student  waiter  corps  of  the  Stanford 
Inn,  Bannister  gave  up  the  position  that  had 
given  him  a  bare  subsistence  since  he  entered 
College,  to  be  Stanford  correspondent  for  the 
San  Francisco  Herald,  known  by  common 


268  Stanford  Stories. 

consent  as  the  yellowest  newspaper  on  the 
Pacific  Coast  and  one  of  the  most  liberal  to  its 
correspondents. 

Promptly  at  seven  o'clock,  for  it  was  not  his 
night  on  the  late  watch,  he  slipped  off  his  apron 
and  his  alpaca  coat,  hung  them  on  the  proper 
nail,  just  as  he  had  done  every  evening  for  a 
year  and  a  half,  vacations  deducted,  and  turned 
in  his  check  stubs  for  the  last  time.  The  head 
waiter  congratulated  him  in  an  awkward  fash 
ion  reflected  from  Bannister's  own  awkward 
ness  ;  the  girl  at  the  counter  wished  him  joy, 
and  then  he  stepped  outside  to  his  freedom. 

The  men  of  the  Inn  were  gathered  on  the 
steps  and  on  the  benches  under  the  great  oak 
opposite,  singing.  A  normal  undergraduate 
would  have  celebrated  his  liberation  by  hunt 
ing  a  seat  between  two  friendly  knees  and  by 
joining  in.  Bannister,  making  his  escape  by  a 
side  door,  ignored  the  group  on  the  steps.  He 
turned  his  head  once  to  see  where  the  noise 
came  from  and  went  on,  pondering  over  the 
information  which  his  predecessor,  as  in  duty 
bound,  had  given  him  and  which  he  had 
learned  by  heart: 

"The  registrar's  office,  football  summary 
twice  a  week,  the  president's  offices,  all  the  de 
partments,  all  the  Campus  games  and  anything 
red-hot,  sensational,  you  know." 

As  he  crossed  the  fields  of  barley  stubble 
lying  between  the  Inn  and  his  room,  Bannister 
thought  these  over  and  wondered  what  Alger 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  269 

meant  by  "red-hot."  The  rest  he  could  man 
age,  all  but  the  football,  and  one  of  the  players 
who  had  been  a  waiter  could  help  him  with 
this.  Now  that  he  was  face  to  face  with  this 
list  of  sources  it  was  suggestive  of  work.  He 
wondered  if,  after  all,  this  was  going  to  give 
him  more  time  than  waiting  on  table.  He  was 
a  little  afraid  it  might  not. 

Any  one  in  College  would  have  said  that 
Bannister  was  an  unregenerate  dig.  And  yet, 
in  the  last  few  weeks,  he  had  grown  vaguely 
conscious  that  he  was  missing  something.  He 
went  from  the  work  at  his  room  to  his  work 
at  the  Inn,  and  he  saw  this  Other  Thing  ex 
pressed  in  the  elevens  straining  against  each 
other  under  the  eyes  of  the  College  gathered 
on  the  bleachers;  he  found  the  echoes  of  it 
while  he  scrubbed  and  swept  fraternity  living 
rooms  which  Friday  night  had  filled  with  foot 
hill  greens  and  the  laughter  of  girls;  the 
mysterious  something  called  to  him  on  soft 
evenings  when  the  laboratory  windows  were 
open  and  fellows  went  singing  down  the 
arcades. 

But  so  far,  Bannister  still  looked  at  the  Uni 
versity  as  a  place ;  its  personality  had  not  yet 
taken  hold  of  him. 

Nevertheless,  perhaps  because  his  small  leis 
ure  was  in  great  measure  solitary,  he  felt  more 
and  more  strongly  the  physical  personality  of 
the  Campus.  The  inner  Quadrangle  grew  upon 
him  with  the  constant  fascination  of  increasing 


270  Stanford  Stories. 

beauty ;  he  watched  eagerly  the  gradual  rise  of 
the  majestic  Church,  saw  it  draw  the  Quad 
closer  to  itself,  making  of  it  a  mission  garden 
as  in  the  first  days  of  the  great  valley.  The 
spread  of  sandstone  buildings  across  the  green 
Campus,  green  fading  under  the  feet  of  Sum 
mer  to  the  yellow  of  the  stone  itself,  the  hills, 
shaggy  with  the  rare  redwoods,  black  against 
the  wonderful  green  sunsets,  the  ocean  fog 
reaching  ghostly  fingers  into  the  canyons  be 
low, — these  and  all  the  gradually  discovered 
beauty  of  the  place  came  at  last  to  hold  him  in 
the  grip  that  makes  memories.  It  was  a  solitary 
sentiment,  however,  unshared  through  any  ex 
pression,  and  it  might  never  have  gone  any 
further  than  this  with  Bannister  but  for  his 
falling  into  the  Herald  place. 

The,  sudden  evening  of  the  early  Fall  de 
scended  upon  him  as  he  made  his  way  to  his 
room,  a  free  man.  Waiter  No.  5,  lingering 
over  dinner  at  the  Inn,  and  still  in  the  waiter's 
apron,  continued  to  dwell  on  Bannister  and 
his  luck. 

"Chance  to  do  something  besides  rustle  hash. 
Chance  to  get  into  things.  Bet  heTl  be  rushing 
a  girl  in  a  week.  Bet  hell  be  trying  for  the 
team.  What  the  blazes  can  a  man  do  when 
he's  stuck  in  this  hole  doing  time  to  keep  alive? 
How  do  you  suppose  he  worked  it?" 

No.  7  was  still  cynical  and  unpersuaded. 

"You  wait,  my  son,"  he  said;  "I  give  him 
just  a  month  to  get  back  to  the  noble  army  of 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  27i 

working  students.  Mix!  Why,  you  ass,  he 
couldn't  tell  what  it  means.  I  know  how  he 
got  the  job.  He  got  it  because  Frank  Lyman 
and  his  student  employment  bureau  don't  know 
beans.  The  Herald  passed  it  up  to  them 
and  they  spotted  Bann  because  he's  steady  and 
works  hard.  He's  a  clod,  that  man  Bannister. 
He  don't  give  a  continental  about  anything  but 
his  Latin  and  Math  and  his  Greek,  and  I'll  be 
durned  if  I  don't  think  that  all  he  studies  for 
is  just  because  it'll  help  him  to  a  good  job 
when  he  gets  out.  Say,  now,  ain't  he  a  warm 
number  for  a  correspondent !" 

No.  7  jabbed  viciously  at  his  butter.  He  had 
waited  on  table  for  three  years  and  was  a 
pessimist. 

Bannister  took  up  his  work  for  the  paper 
unassumingly,  mechanically,  as  he  had  waited 
on  table  or  cleaned  a  professor's  yard.  So 
much  time  each  day  for  looking  up  events, 
from  the  registrar's  and  the  president's  offices ; 
so  much  for  systematic  interviews  with  the 
heads  of  departments,  so  much  talk  with  his 
source  of  football  information,  learning  the 
unfamiliar  terminology  of  a  thing  entirely 
strange  and  new,  beyond  his  horizon.  It  was 
characteristic  of  the  man  that  he  never  went 
to  the  practice  himself;  he  spent  that  hour 
every  afternoon  "writing  up"  the  news 
gathered  during  the  day.  He  wrote  it  as  he 
gathered  it,  plainly,  correctly,  in  unvarnished 
academic  English.  He  was  puzzled  sometimes 


272  Stanford  Stories. 

to  see  how  it  had  blossomed  into  flowery  meta 
phors  and  shrunk  to  short  paragraphs  by  the 
time  it  came  out  in  type.  He  wondered 
vaguely  if  there  was  anything  the  matter. 

Nothing  sensational  or  "red-hot"  came  up 
during  the  first  month,  yet  he  was  twice 
"scooped"  by  the  other  correspondents.  After 
the  second  instance  he  was  briefly  reminded  of 
the  fact  by  a  telephone  message  from  the  city 
office.  He  debated  long  that  night  whether  or 
not  he  had  better  give  it  up  and  go  back  to  the 
dining-room.  It  was  taking  more  time  than 
he  expected.  Then  a  slow  determination  that 
went  with  his  reticence  asserted  itself ;  he  took 
a  hitch  in  his  purpose,  decided  that  he  could 
not  afford  to  be  beaten  out,  and  next  day 
actually  attended  football  practice. 

On  this  day  he  began  to  understand.  It  was 
a  rare  day  in  the  still-born  Spring  that  drops 
over  the  valley  between  the  first  rains  and  the 
real  downpour  of  Winter.  Under  the  dry 
stubble  new  grass  was  peeping ;  the  near  foot 
hills  were  green-brown  with  awakening  foli 
age  ;  the  mountains  glowed  in  blue  mockery  of 
their  Spring  hues.  From  every  nook  and  angle 
of  the  Campus,  student  groups  were  strolling, 
by  twos,  by  threes;  men  in  corduroys  and 
sweaters  sauntered  out  of  the  Hall,  arm 
over  shoulder,  calling  to  one  another  as  they 
walked ;  one  was  shouting  out  an  appointment 
at  the  top  of  his  lungs  to  another  man  doubled 
up  in  a  window  ledge  of  the  fourth  floor. 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  273 

Knots  of  fellows  more  conventionally  clad 
came  from  the  Quadrangle,  and  with  them 
other  knots  of  easy-moving,  athletic  girls 
carrying  notebooks,  just  as  they  had  emerged 
from  the  laboratories  or  the  Library.  Specks  of 
color  shone  in  the  crowd  where  stalwart,  slow- 
striding  players  lounged  upon  the  field  in  their 
red  sweaters.  The  whole  fair  prospect  was 
abubble  with  light  laughter  and  atremble  with 
joy  of  the  sunlight  reflected  back  as  in  a  mirror 
from  young  spirits. 

The  correspondent  of  the  Herald  tucked 
himself  away  on  the  bleachers  close  up  to  the 
yelling  section.  As  he  watched,  something 
came  over  his  big  sluggish  spirits  which  had 
been  insensibly  rising  with  the  weather  and  the 
occasion.  If  he  had  ever  had  enough  feelings 
to  give  him  practice  in  dissecting  emotions,  he 
would  have  said  that  it  was  loneliness ;  he,  of 
all,  had  no  friendly  shoulder  as  a  rest  for  his 
arm,  he  alone  had  no  part  in  the  gay  little  con 
versations  running  over  stand  and  field. 

A  moment  later,  leather  smote  upon  leather 
and  the  first  ball  of  the  day's  practice  was  soar 
ing  in  the  air.  Play  was  on;  the  head  rooter 
waved  his  arms  and  brought  his  cohorts  to 
their  feet  for  the  yell,  three  times  repeated. 
Bannister  sat  back  and  felt  a  vicarious  em 
barrassment  for  people  who  were  making  such 
idiots  of  themselves  as  those  rooters. 

What  happened  next  he  did  not  clearly  un 
derstand;  he  had  been  writing,  for  the  past 


274  Stanford  Stories. 

month,  at  the  dictation  of  his  friendly  football 
man,  about  "tackles"  and  "runs"  and  "buck 
ing"  and  "interference."  He  saw  these  now, 
without  recognition.  All  he  knew  at  first  was 
that  a  crowd  of  men  were  shoving  and  bang 
ing  and  fighting  with  some  system  which  he 
did  not  understand,  a  struggle  all  centered  on 
a  little  leather  ball.  It  was  a  fight ;  because  he 
was  of  the  male  order  of  creation,  he  under 
stood  that  perfectly,  and  his  nerves  began  to 
quiver  and  tingle. 

Presently  a  strange  thing  came  to  him.  The 
ball  had  just  been  kicked  high  in  the  air. 
Away  down  the  field  a  man  was  waiting  for 
it  to  fall,  a  little  man  of  nervous  movements. 
Two  other  men,  one  on  either  side  of  the  field, 
were  running  under  the  shadow  of  the  ball, 
skimming  the  ground  like  swallows.  Bannister 
knew  that  they  were  trying  to  catch  the  little 
man  waiting  for  the  ball.  A  feeling  of  sym 
pathy  for  the  pursued  rose  in  Bannister;  his 
hands  dug  into  the  boards  as  he  watched.  The 
ball  fell  square  into  the  arms  of  the  little  man, 
midway  in  his  run.  A  pursuer  hurled  himself 
at  his  hips;  the  runner  wriggled  off,  glided 
through  the  impotent  arms  of  the  other  hound 
on  his  trail,  and  went  streaming  down  the 
field,  covering  bar  after  bar  of  the  gridiron, 
gliding  like  a  wraith  between  man  after  man 
of  his  foes.  A  big  fellow  hurled  himself 
through  the  air,  struck  full  on  the  knees  of  the 
little  man,  downed  him;  the  bleachers  rose, 


Bannister's  ' 'Scoop."  27S 

yelling  like  demons,  and,  what  is  more  notable, 
Bannister  rose  with  them,  putting  the  mite  of 
his  untrained  voice  into  the  general  pande 
monium.  It  was  only  a  rather  clever  run-in 
against  a  second  eleven  which  should  have 
stopped  it  inside  of  five  yards;  to  Bannister  it 
was  as  the  striving  of  the  gods. 

Only  when  the  teams  had  got  into  position 
for  another  play  and  the  bleachers  had  sat 
down  again,  did  Bannister  realize  how  foolish 
he  had  been.  He  went  home  through  the  brief 
California  twilight,  very  much  ashamed  of 
himself,  but  with  curious  little  thrills  down  his 
back  as  he  thought  of  that  run.  Twice  in  the 
next  five  days  he  attended  practice  and  that 
week  his  football  forecasts  almost  had  life  in 
them. 

Some  days  later  the  men  in  the  dormitory 
gave  a  Friday  night  smoker  with  a  stag  dance 
accompaniment.  Although  there  was  an  ex 
amination  in  Sallust  scheduled  for  the  Monday 
following,  Bannister  attended.  He  even 
blundered  through  the  Virginia  reel  in  the 
Sophomore  set. 

The  following  Tuesday  there  was  a  cautious, 
forbidden  rush  between  a  section  of  the  Sopho 
more  class  and  a  picked-up  squad  of  Freshmen. 
Bannister  heard  the  noise,  went  across  to  re 
port  it,  and  stayed  to  roll  over  in  the  mud, 
helping  to  tie  up  the  Freshman  champion. 
Meetings  and  summonses  followed  among  the 
committee  on  Student  Affairs.  He  experienced 


2?6  Stanford  Stories. 

agonies  of  apprehension,  but  no  one  thought 
of  him  as  a  disturber,  and  he  escaped  uncalled. 

Within  a  fortnight  he  was  screeching  like  a 
pirate  at  football  practice,  with  never  a  thrill 
of  shame.  His  youth  had  awakened.  With  it 
awoke  a  keen  joy  in  his  position  as  news- 
gatherer,  gossip-in-ordinary  to  the  University, 
and  deep  down  in  his  heart,  unexpressed,  un 
realized,  amplifying  his  sense  of  the  beauty  of 
the  place,  there  moved  the  love  of  the  bigger 
thing,  the  thing  greater  than  himself  which  is 
called  religion,  or  patriotism,  or  loyalty, 
according  as  its  object  is  church,  nation,  or 
college.  He  did  not  know  that  it  was  there, 
just  as  when  later  he  let  it  get  the  better  of 
him  he  did  not  know  that  he  was  a  hero. 

One  evening  after  dinner,  a  fortnight  before 
the  big  game,  Bannister  strolled  over  to  the 
postoffice  for  his  mail.  A  brief  six  months  ago 
he  would  have  walked  alone  and  hurried  back 
to  his  Latin.  Now  he  loafed  along  with  the 
gang  from  the  Hall,  and  talked  about  the 
chances  of  the  team  if  the  day  were  muddy. 
He  wore  a  sweater — bought  from  his  first 
month's  pay — and  he  had  his  arm  across 
Jimmy  Mason's  shoulder.  Between  the 
snatches  of  conversation  they  hummed  the 
latest  patter-songs  from  the  vaudeville  houses 
and  Bannister  carried  the  bass.  As  they 
pressed  through  the  crowd  waiting  for  the  de 
livery  window  to  open,  he  raised  his  hat  three 
times.  He  already  knew  six  girls! 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  277 

In  this  mood,  this  summer  of  the  soul,  Ban 
nister  received  a  letter  from  the  city  office: 

"San  Francisco,  Oct.  14,  1902. 
F.  A.  Bannister,  Palo  Alto,  California. 

What  is  the  matter  with  you?  Both  the 
News  and  the  Globe  have  the  Herbert  expedi 
tion  today  and  have  played  it  up.  You  were 
beaten  last  week  on  the  Markham  story  and 
our  sporting  editor  informs  me  that  your 
football  stuff  is  very  weak.  Other  papers  may 
be  able  to  afford  to  keep  a  college  correspond 
ent  for  ornament,  but  the  Herald  does  not  do 
business  that  way. 

This  is  the  time  of  year  when  we  have  a 
right  to  expect  some  effort  from  a  college 
correspondent.  If  your  copy  does  not  improve, 
I  shall  recommend  your  dismissal. 

Beach,  Coast  Ed." 

Bannister  went  out  upon  the  steps  and 
watched  the  evening  mists  drizzle  through  the 
tall  palms  and  the  youth  went  out  of  his  heart. 
Before  him  loomed  the  dining-room,  a  sentence 
to  hard  work  for  poor  existence.  He  had  done 
his  best,  and  the  letter  in  his  hand  was  the  sum 
of  his  accomplishment. 

"And  now,"  he  said  to  himself,  the  breath 
catching  in  his  throat,  "I  suppose  I'll  have  to 
go  back  to  hash-slinging!" 

Curtis,  the  Globe  correspondent,  came 
scorching  up  on  his  wheel.  He  stopped  and 


278  Stanford  Stories. 

swung  off  with  a  jerk  as  he  approached  Ban 
nister,  calling: 

"Hey,  Bannie,  got  any  dope  on  the  organist?" 

Bannister  had  been  waiting  to  hear  of  the 
arrival  of  the  famous  musician  from  New 
York  who  was  to  play  the  great  Church  organ 
on  the  following  Sunday,  and  who  had  failed 
to  give  notice  of  his  coming  or  of  the  pro 
gramme  he  had  selected.  Bannister,  heart 
sick,  wondered  if  he  were  remiss  here,  too. 

"No,"  he  confessed.    "Is  he  here?" 

"Yep — last  train — gone  up  with  the  Doc. 
News  has  got  it,  so  it's  wide  open.  Too  late 
to  mail  it — I  suppose  my  pinching  old  sheet 
will  kick — I've  just  queried." 

Curtis'  conversation  was  always  forcible  but 
fragmentary. 

Instead  of  taking  interest  in  the  story,  Ban 
nister  drew  from  his  pocket  the  coast  editor's 
letter  and  handed  it  to  Curtis.  He  was  long 
ing  for  a  confidant.  Curtis  ran  through  the 
letter  like  lightning  and  handed  it  back. 

"Too  darned  bad;  blame  shame  we  can't 
stand  in  on  big  stories,  Bannie,  but  the  sheet 
gets  right  on  if  we  don't  scoop  each  other. 
Herald  wants  the  earth  anyway.  Say,  Bannie," 
he  proposed  with  sudden  confidence,  "can  you 
use  my  dope  on  the  organist?" 

Bannister,  appreciating  the  friendly  intent, 
swallowed  his  pride  and  accepted. 

They  moved  over  to  his  room  in  the  Hall, 
Curtis  talking  like  a  machine  gun  all  the  way. 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  279 

There  Bannister  took  a  few  notes  and  Curtis, 
going  to  the  telegraph  office  for  an  answer  to 
his  query,  took  Bannister's  query  also. 

The  Herald  correspondent  wrote,  as  he 
always  did,  with  slow,  methodical  care.  By 
the  time  he  had  finished  the  six  or  seven  hun 
dred  words  which  he  thought  sufficient,  it  was 
after  ten  o'clock.  A  message  was  waiting  for 
him  at  the  office,  "Four  hundred  words."  He 
cut  out  a  few  paragraphs  and  passed  the  stuff 
in  to  the  operator. 

"Please  send  this  as  soon  as  you  can,  Chris ; 
it's  late." 

The  operator  put  the  stop  on  his  switch. 

"Can't  now,  Bannie.  Here's  a  rush  mes 
sage.  Miss  Clawson;  her  mother's  sick;  the 
answer's  paid.  I'll  have  to  deliver  it  first." 

"Can't  I  take  it  over  to  the  dormitory?" 
asked  Bannister.  "You  send  my  story  up 
quick  and  let  me  deliver  the  message." 

Bannister  slipped  the  yellow  envelope  and 
operator's  sign  book  into  his  pocket  and  cut 
through  the  Quadrangle.  As  he  passed  the 
first  palm  circle,  a  man  on  a  bicycle  glided  past 
him.  The  electric  lights  on  the  arches  began 
to  pale  just  then;  it  was  half-past  ten  and 
time  for  the  current  to  be  turned  off.  In  the 
last  rays  Bannister  saw  the  wheelman  pass 
through  the  arch  leading  to  the  girls'  dormi 
tory  and  he  recognized  the  University  medi 
cal  director. 

The  volunteer  messenger  reached  the  Hall 


*8o  Stanford  Stories. 

porch  and  rang  the  bell.  The  building  was 
not  yet  dark ;  candle  lights  burned  from  nearly 
every  window  and  a  strong  ray  glowed 
through  the  spaces  between  the  drawn  shades 
of  the  doors.  As  he  stood  wondering  at  these 
signs  of  unwonted  excitement  at  this  hour  on 
a  week  night,  another  man  hurried  up  the 
steps.  The  light  from  the  lobby  fell  for  an 
instant  upon  his  face.  It  was  the  chairman 
of  the  Faculty  committee  on  Student  Affairs. 

The  Herald  correspondent  stepped  into  the 
shadow  of  the  porch.  His  nerves  were  tin 
gling.  It  dawned  on  his  slow  consciousness 
that  a  story  was  in  the  air. 

From  the  Hall  came  the  sound  of  a  dozen 
excited  feminine  voices.  Above  them  rose  a 
high,  strident  tone,  which  Bannister  knew  to 
be  the  voice  of  the  matron,  recently  in  charge, 
and  generally  unpopular.  The  professor,  with 
the  full  light  upon  him,  passed  into  the  build 
ing  and  the  door  closed. 

Bannister  drew  a  deep  breath.  It  was  the 
Herald  sensation.  He  had  stumbled  upon  it, 
with  the  other  correspondents  abed  or  at  May- 
field.  If  he  only  knew  how  to  land  it ! 

He  felt  a  pang  of  anxiety  lest  he  might  have 
been  seen.  Perhaps  his  reputation,  or  rather 
the  lack  of  it,  would  save  him  for  the  moment. 
Slipping  up  to  the  door,  he  rang  again.  A  girl 
wearing  a  mackintosh  peeped  through  the 
shades.  He  held  .up  the  telegram  instinctively ; 
she  opened  the  door.  As  he  stepped  in  he  saw 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  *&* 

a  white-robed  figure  slip  up  the  stairway  and 
heard  a  hum  of  excited  talk  from  the  second 
floor.  The  atmosphere  was  electric  with  sup 
pressed  excitement. 

The  girl  who  let  him  in  happened  to  be  one 
of  the  six  whom  he  knew  at  the  University. 
Her  mackintosh  was  edged  with  white  at  the 
bottom;  plainly  she  had  thrown  it  over  her 
nightdress. 

"Great  times  upstairs !"  he  ventured,  for  a 
feeler. 

She  took  the  bait  beyond  his  wildest  expec 
tations. 

"Well,  I  should  say  so !"  she  answered  with 
a  venomous  emphasis  on  every  word. 

"It's  pretty  bad,"  said  Bannister,  assuming 
the  air  of  one  who  knew  the  whole  sad  tale ; 
"how  did  it  start,  anyway?" 

"Well,  of  course,"  said  the  girl,  "it  isn't 
anything  to  make  such  a  fuss  over,  really.  But 
they've  broken  one  of  the  strictest  rules  in  the 
Hall,  that  about  having  any  intoxicants  in  the 
building,  and  even  if  they  do  say  that  it  was 
only  a  pint  bottle  of  claret  for  the  purpose  of 
making  'pink  lemonade/  it's  the  same  thing  in 
principle.  They  wouldn't  have  thought  of 
doing  it,  anyway,  but  for  this  idea  they've  got 
that  they  are  the  swell  set  in  the  Hall,  and  I 
suppose  they  call  that  being  swell.  They  were 
caught  breaking  the  rule,  however,  and  some 
body  told  the  matron  about  it  and  she  went  up 
there,  and  when  they  wouldn't  let  her  in  the 


282  Stanford  Stories 

room  she  had  hysterics  and  telephoned  for  two 
professors  and  made  a  lovely  mess  of  it, — just 
like  her!  She's  set  the  whole  dormitory  by 
the  ears,  and  the  whole  three  floors  are  quarrel 
ing  over  the  thing  now,  and  this  having  the 
professors  over  makes  it  look  scandalous.  I'm 
very  glad  indeed  that  I'm  not  in  the  swell  set !" 

"They  were  laughing  about  it  over  at  the 
Hall ;  nobody  took  it  seriously,  so  there  won't 
be  any  harm  come  of  it,"  said  Bannister,  lying 
as  he  imagined  all  reporters  must  lie. 

"Oh,  dear!"  cried  the  girl.  "Is  it  all  over 
the  Campus?" 

"I  don't  doubt  it,  but  it  won't  matter.  I 
won't  talk  about  it.  That  telegram  has  to  have 
an  answer,  you  know.  I've  got  to  get  back  to 
the  office." 

The  girl  hurried  up  the  stairs.  Bannister 
stepped  outside  the  door.  He  was  anxious  not 
to  meet  the  Faculty  men.  He  could  hardly 
wait  for  the  girl  to  return,  so  eager  was  he  to 
get  the  story  off,  so  frightened  lest  some  one 
should  write  it  away  from  him.  He  had  the 
elements  of  a  story  with  limitless  possibilities 
in  the  line  of  the  coast  editor's  standards.  He 
was  righted  with  the  paper.  For  the  first 
time  he  knew  the  tingling  consciousness  of  a 
"scoop." 

He  took  the  message  from  the  girl  and 
bolted,  fearing  to  ask  further  questions ;  he  had 
the  story  in  his  head;  it  was  all  that  was 
necessary. 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  283 

"Here's  the  answer,  Chris.  When  you  send 
it  up,  send  this  query  for  me  while  I  go  over 
and  write  up.  It's  a  big  thing,  sure  it  is." 

Bannister  sat  down  and  wrote  his  query: 

Herald,  S.  F. — Hot  story,  girls'  dormitory. 
Wine.  Hysterics.  Faculty  called  in.  Ex 
clusive.  How  much? 

Bannister. 

"Hold  the  office  open,  Chris,"  he  repeated. 
"I'm  going  to  my  room  and  write  it." 

He  flung  himself  upon  the  operator's  wheel 
and  rode  to  his  room.  He  must  write  fever 
ishly  and  he  must  write  alone.  His  pencil 
raced  across  the  paper,  the  story  grew  under 
his  hands  in  natural,  effective  shape,  under 
some  strange  inspiration.  As  he  read  it  over 
he  knew  that  he  had  done  what  the  Herald  de 
manded,  that  this  was  the  "hot  stuff."  He 
glanced  at  his  alarm  clock.  Nearly  midnight; 
he  must  hurry  or  Chris  would  close  the  office. 

He  was  just  getting  clear  of  the  building 
when  he  heard  voices.  Some  men  were  reach 
ing  the  Hall  from  Mayfield.  Bannister  hugged 
the  corner  of  the  building,  avoiding  the  gravel 
of  the  road.  A  peculiar  dread,  touched  with  a 
vague  sense  of  guilt,  was  creeping  upon  him. 
He  dared  not  meet  any  one. 

The  stragglers  were  talking  loudly.  There 
was  some  trouble  among  them,  some  quarrel 
where  several  men  were  trying  to  control  one 
other.  A  belligerent  voice  was  crying : 


a&*  Stanford  Stories. 

"Let  me  at  him !    Let  me  at  him !" 

A  chorus  of  reassuring  voices  joined  in,  but 
the  angry  voice  rose  over  them. 

"Confound  him,  I'll  break  his  neck !  He  said 
it.  I  tell  you,  I  heard  him !" 

"Well,  what  if  I  did?"  came  another  voice, 
quiet  and  sneering.  "You're  not  the  only  one 
taking  a  course  here,  are  you?" 

"No  matter,"  panted  the  adversary,  "you're 
talking  against  the  College.  Don't  hold  me, 
Jimmy.  I  only  want  to  punch  him  once !" 

"But  it's  true!"  challenged  the  other  voice. 
"Every  one  knows  it's  down  there  in  the 
Museum." 

"All  the  worse  for  you.  True  or  not,  you've 
knocked  Stanford  to  outsiders  and  I'm  going 
to  break  your  face  for  it.  Let  go  of  me, 
you!" 

There  was  the  noise  of  scuffling  in  the  dark 
doorway,  then  the  sounds  told  Bannister  that 
his  friends  had  controlled  the  excited  man, 
were  taking  him  away.  The  racket  died  down 
along  the  hallway. 

In  spite  of  the  hour,  the  urgent  need  for 
haste,  Bannister  rode  slowly  as  he  approached 
the  Quadrangle.  The  Herald's  story  burned 
in  his  pocket  They  were  waiting  for  it  in 
town.  He  had  committed  himself  by  query 
over  the  wire. 

But— 

He  would  have  to  go  back  to  the  dining- 
room,  he  would  have  to  resume  a  routine 


Bannister's  "Scoop."  *85 

utterly  distasteful.  His  college  correspondence 
had  brought  him  the  happiest  days  of  his  life ; 
it  had  been  the  means  of  teaching  him  what 
college  signified ;  it  would  be  like  suicide  to  go 
back  to  the  old  slavery. 

Still— 

The  entire  State  tomorrow  would  be  read 
ing  his  story  and  laughing  at  his  cleverness; 
then  the  whole  country  would  have  it  and  the 
gibes  of  the  funny  men  would  begin;  the 
sweet  girl  graduate,  the  new  woman  thirsting 
for  equal  chances  with  her  brother,  they  would 
have  to  catch  it.  Unless  it  were  exaggerated 
there  was  nothing  in  the  story  really  detri 
mental  to  the  girls  of  the  University.  It 
probably  would  be  exaggerated,  but  those 
things  could  be  denied.  Besides,  he  was  only 
a  day  ahead  of  the  rest.  Curtis  and  the  others 
would  get  it  tomorrow,  anyhow.  They  would 
have  no  scruples.  And  they  were  college  men. 

And  yet — 

He  reached  the  Quadrangle,  and  slipping 
from  his  wheel,  led  it  slowly  into  the  big  en 
closure.  With  one  hand  on  the  handle-bars, 
he  drew  from  his  pocket  the  story  and  looked 
at  it  undecided. 

When  he  was  midway  in  the  Quadrangle  he 
heard  the  Voice.  It  rolled  down  to  him  from 
the  upper  shadows  of  the  Church,  tender,  pene 
trating,  compelling.  It  filled  the  whole  silence 
with  music,  throbbing  under  the  arches,  sink 
ing  into  the  roots  of  the  palms.  Bannister 


286  Stanford  Stories. 

hardly  stopped  to  reason  how  it  came;  he  felt 
it  rather  than  heard  it.  He  stood  quiet,  with 
the  chimes  tower  looming  above  him,  and  shut 
his  eyes,  without  power  to  judge  what  was 
going  on  within  him.  Numb,  dazed  as  one 
who  moved  in  a  dream,  he  tore  the  folded 
yellow  paper  into  bits  and  flung  them  far  from 
him,  an  unconscious  sacrifice  to  the  best  that 
his  college  had  given  him. 

At   half-past  two   the   night  editor   called 
down  the  tube  to  the  coast  editor: 

"How  much  longer  are  we  going  to  hold 
the  form  for  that  column  from  Stanford?" 
The  coast  editor's  growl  came  back: 
"Better  give  it  up.    We've  got  a  fool  corre 
spondent  down  there  who  wouldn't  know  a 
live  story  if  he  found  it  in  the  street,  tied  up 
and  addressed  to  us." 

"Well,  what  are  you  going  to  do  about  it?" 
"Get  him  fired,"  said  the  coast  editor,  "he 
hasn't  any  pull." 


A  WOODSIDE  IDYL. 


A  Woodside  Idyl. 

"The  Devil  can  quote  Scripture  for  his  purpose." 

It  was  a  May  day  of  that  entrancing  blue 
which  comes  to  California  skies  after  the  last 
rains,  bringing  with  it  the  assurance  of  con 
tinued  fair  weather.  The  meadow-larks  sang 
in  the  fields  and  Pete  Halleck,  cutting  cross 
country  with  Walt  Haviland,  sang  as  joyously 
though  not  as  prettily.  This  cross-country 
tramp  was  a  device  slipped  in  between  exami 
nations  for  the  purpose  of  relaxing  the 
harassed  brains  of  the  examined  at  the  same 
time  that  it  stimulated  them  for  further  meet 
ing  with  the  examiner. 

"Walt,"  said  Pete,  stopping  his  emulation 
of  the  meadow-lark  and  bringing  up  a  ques 
tion  apparently  from  nowhere,  "what  do  they 
mean  by  the  'Church  Militant'?" 

Haviland  gazed  at  the  other  man  in  puzzled 
wonder. 

"How  should  I  know,  of  all  men!"  he 
protested. 

"Then,"  said  Halleck,  stopping  short,  "we 
must  follow  the  rule  that  bids  the  careful 
student  exhaust  every  source  of  information 
before  dismissing  the  question  as  unanswer 
able.  We  must  inquire." 

"Sure,"  said  Haviland,  "ask  the  birds." 


29°  Stanford  Stories. 

"No,"  said  Pete.  "There's  a  cabin  over 
there  in  the  apricots,  and  though  we  may  not 
find  a  fountain  of  definitive  knowledge,  we  may 
at  least  get  a  drink  of  cool  water,  for  which  I 
am  quite  as  thirsty." 

They  walked  into  the  orchard  and  knocked 
at  the  door.  It  was  opened  by  a  young  man 
with  pointed  beard,  arrayed  in  brown  denim. 

Halleck  gravely  repeated  the  question  he 
had  put  to  Haviland.  The  man  in  denim 
answered  him  as  gravely. 

"The  'Church  Militant',"  said  he,  "is  an 
association  of  fighting  parsons.  One  of  them 
lives  here  with  me." 

The  faces  of  the  Freshmen  showed  plainly 
enough  that  they  had  received  more  than  they 
had  expected. 

"You  see,"  went  on  the  proprietor  of  the 
cabin,  "I'm  Jeggins,  '95,  quite  awhile  before 
your  time.  I'm  foreman  of  this  ranch  and  I 
live  alone  except  when  Parson  Jones  shares 
my  humble  hearth.  I'm  reading  law  on  the 
side.  Jones  is  a  cub  preacher  and  what  you 
might  call  a  professor  of  muscular  Chris 
tianity.  He's  been  stopping  here  with  me  for 
a  week  or  so  and  last  night  he  didn't  show  up. 
I'm  afraid  there's  been  a  fight  somewhere. 
I'm  wondering  if  he  could  have  been  at  it 
again." 

"A  scrap,  and  me  not  in  it?"  said  Halleck, 
to  show  himself  at  ease. 

"Queer   kind   of   a   clergyman,"    Haviland 


A  Woodside  Idyl.  29' 

remarked,  "if  you  really  mean  that  you  think 
he  has  been  fighting." 

"Oh,  I  won't  say  that,"  Jeggins  explained. 
"I  believe  he's  really  all  over  that  by  now,  but 
there  was  a  time  when  he  wouldn't  have  been 
far  away  from  a  good  battle.  Never  hear  of 
his  fight  at  Woodside?" 

"Never,"  said  Haviland.  "May  we  have  the 
story?" 

"And  a  drink  of  water?"  added  Halleck. 

"Sure,"  said  Jeggins.  "What  better  combi 
nation  than  a  good  drink  and  a  good  story!" 

And  so,  when  they  had  cooled  their  young 
throats  with  spring  water  and  had  seated 
themselves  on  the  shaded  steps  of  the  cabin, 
Jeggins  '95  gave  the  Freshmen  a  bit  of  un 
recorded  Stanford  history. 

About  ten  miles  up  the  line  from  the  Cam 
pus  lies  the  little  town  of  Woodside,  where  an 
over-worked  student  may  forget  his  cares  in 
the  joys  of  rural  society,  as  maybe  you  know 
already.  When  rain  has  been  plenty  and  crops 
good,  the  farmers  of  the  county  gather  at 
Woodside  and  bring  their  girls.  Under 
graduates  occasionally  condescend  to  be 
amongst  those  present  and  they  are  strictly  in 
it.  A  fellow  may  be  as  homely  as  a  Cruik- 
shank  special,  but  he  fries  eggs  if  he  comes 
from  the  University.  Cross-eyed  or  slow  in 
the  head,  it  makes  no  difference  if  he  wears 
the  College  togs. 


292  Stanford  Stories. 

The  Venus  of  Woodside,  in  my  time,  was 
Nellie  Hawkins.  She  certainly  was  a  winner. 
She  went  through  every  dance  in  the  county 
that  year  like  a  prairie  fire,  burning  men  up 
right  and  left.  Woodside  was  the  main  office 
of  her  heart-cracking  establishment.  She  used 
to  drive  to  the  dances  with  her  old  father,  who 
slept  in  the  dressing  room  while  she  twirled. 
When  she  got  ready  to  go  she'd  ring  him  up 
all  rested  and  ready  for  another  day's  work. 

Well,  they  gave  a  dance  at  Woodside  just 
before  Thanksgiving  in  my  Freshman  year 
and  a  lot  of  us  went.  Nellie  was  there,  of 
course,  and  looking  dangerous.  In  my  young 
innocence  I  laid  for  her  and  prepared  for 
victory  or  death.  I  got  the  second  mazurka; 
then  I  located  the  third  waltz;  finally  I  per 
suaded  her  to  cut  out  a  red-headed  farmer, 
who  had  the  last  lancers,  and  we  sailed  down 
the  hall,  the  social  success  of  the  occasion. 
But  I  rejoiced  too  early. 

We  were  whirling  around  on  "grand  right 
and  left"  when  I  saw  the  red-headed  yap,  who 
owned  that  dance,  making  for  our  corner  of 
the  hall.  I  got  to  Nellie  just  then ;  we  stopped 
and  swung  to  our  place. 

"You  see  that  fellow,"  she  said  to  me. 

"I  do,"  says  I;  "who  is  he?" 

"He  thinks  he's  my  steady,"  she  says,  "but 
I  ain't  so  sure.  There  are  others."  Then  she 
turned  her  azure  beads  on  me  and  I  perished 
with  joy. 


A  Woodside  Idyl.  *93 

Just  then  the  farmer  got  there.  He  didn't 
say  a  word  to  her,  but  he  felt  of  my  arm. 

"Look  here,  young  fellow,"  he  says,  "I'd 
like  to  see  you  outside  after  this  dance." 

"You  ain't  afraid,  are  you?"  she  says  when 
he  had  sloped. 

Well,  I  was.  A  man  with  the  ague  would 
have  seemed  like  a  marble  statue  alongside  of 
me.  But  her  asking  that  way  settled  my  nerve. 
I  was  ready  to  die  game.  I  went  outside,  with 
the  fellows  to  see  fair  play,  and  we  mixed. 

I  have  always  maintained  that  I  hit  him 
once;  but  it  must  be  my  vanity,  for  no  one 
else  saw  me  score.  The  red-headed  yap  was 
a  cyclone  on  ball-bearings.  He  mauled  me 
until  his  native  mercy  asserted  itself.  Excuse 
me  if  I  drop  the  veil.  The  light  and  gayety 
went  out  of  the  occasion  for  me.  Nell  Haw 
kins  saw  what  was  left  of  me,  when  I  was 
getting  my  coat.  She  didn't  say  anything ;  she 
just  stood  off  and  gave  me  the  silvery  ha-ha. 
It  was  a  harsh  night  for  little  Edward. 

I  was  only  a  Freshman  then  and  I  realize 
now  with  a  chastened  sense  that  I  deserved  to 
be  licked.  But  it  everlastingly  got  to  me  at 
the  time.  So,  for  personal  vengeance  and  the 
glory  of  the  College,  I  collaborated  with  the 
composite  Freshman  intellect  and  we  struck 
a  scheme.  It  involved  Parson  Jones. 

Besides  being  the  greatest  bucking  fullback 
ever,  Jones  had  the  pulpit  fever,  and  was 
studying  for  the  ministry.  No  one  ever  saw 


294  Stanford  Stories. 

how  he  could  play  football.  He  looked  meek 
and  serious,  and  was  stoop-shouldered  and 
not  very  big.  His  muscle  didn't  show  much 
through  his  clothes. 

His  chief  trouble  about  football  was  that  he 
would  naturally  sail  in  and  fight,  if  the  other 
fellow  played  dirty  ball,  and  this  used  to 
bother  him  a  lot.  One  time  in  a  match  game, 
he  went  up  to  the  referee  after  the  first  half 
and  said,  "See  here,  you'd  better  rule  me  off 
the  gridiron.  I  struck  that  quarterback  with 
out  provocation."  But  the  referee  only  said, 
"I  didn't  see  it ;  you  get  back  to  your  position." 

There  was  one  year  he  swore  he  wouldn't 
play  at  all.  He  said  that  he  couldn't  keep  his 
temper,  once  it  got  started,  and  he  ought  to 
avoid  temptation  if  he  ever  expected  to  preach. 
It  took  the  whole  College  to  get  him  into  the 
eleven  again.  But  we  had  to  keep  good  watch 
on  him,  because  we  knew  that  if  he  should 
ever  get  started  slugging  in  a  practice  game,  he 
would  pull  out  for  the  season.  The  second 
team  went  in  that  year  with  instructions  to 
run  away  if  Jones  started  in  to  fight. 

To  resume.  We  knew  that  the  Parson 
would  do  the  trick  for  us,  if  we  could  ever 
drag  him  up  to  Woodside  and  turn  him  loose 
on  the  red-headed  farmer.  But  it  took  con 
siderable  scheming  to  bring  it  off.  The  Com 
mittee  of  Investigation  found,  however,  that 
there  was  going  to  be  the  biggest  time  of  the 
year  at  Woodside  on  Christmas  Eve  and  that 


A  Woodside  Idyl.  295 

the  Parson  wasn't  going  home  for  the  holi 
days.  So  we  sent  "Bug"  Ray  to  persuade  him. 

The  dancing  was  the  critical  point,  but  the 
Bug  told  him  that  if  he  was  going  to  preach 
to  the  farmers  he  ought  to  meet  them  in  their 
hours  of  recreation.  The  Parson  said  that  he 
was  not  opposed  to  dancing  in  general,  though 
he  didn't  think  it  seemly  for  the  clergy,  and 
as  it  appeared  to  be  innocent  and  respectable, 
he  promised  to  attend  the  entertainment. 

We  got  there  a  little  late ;  things  were  going 
full  blast.  After  a  preliminary  scout,  we  put 
the  Parson  up  against  Nell  Hawkins  and  left 
him  spieling  to  her.  Right  here  was  where 
the  Steering  Committee  got  in  its  keen  work. 
We  butted  in  and  made  ourselves  agreeable. 
We  peeled  off  our  haughty  air  and  mixed. 
Our  team  work  was  perfect.  Each  one  of  us 
nailed  a  man  in  Nell's  string  and  edged  him 
off,  interfering  to  give  the  Parson  a  chance. 
I  had  the  red-headed  farmer;  that  hurt  some, 
but  I  seen  my  duty,  and  I  done  it.  We  got 
real  friendly,  durn  him!  By  and  by  I  ran 
him  off  with  the  Bug  to  have  a  drink,  while  I 
went  back  to  take  a  look. 

Say,  the  Parson  was  all  right.  He  had  that 
girl  hypnotized.  He  was  sitting  on  the  bench 
beside  her  manufacturing  serious  rhetoric, 
and  she  was  lamping  him  as  though  he  were 
the  only  one  within  two  hundred  and  ten  miles. 
She  had  sat  out  two  dances  with  him.  If  the 
Parson  can  preach  the  way  he  can  con,  he'll 


296  Stanford  Stories. 

be  a  regular  Henry  Ward  Beecher.  I  judged 
that  the  time  had  come  for  the  event  of  the 
evening,  and  I  signalled  out  of  the  window 
for  the  Bug  to  trot  in  the  victim. 

You  couldn't  guess  what  that  budding 
preacher  was  doing  before  they  got  back! 
Well,  there  was  a  bunch  of  mistletoe  in  a  sort 
of  entry  outside  the  hall.  The  rustics  had 
been  doing  their  uncouth  gambols  under  it  all 
the  evening.  Nell  sidled  outside  pretending 
that  she  wanted  air  and  stood  there  looking 
inviting.  Honest,  I  didn't  think  that  Parson 
would  kiss  her,  but  she  was  a  sure  enough 
temptation  for  any  man.  She  was  a  beaut. 

"Now  you  stop!"  she  says,  and  just  then 
the  farmer  got  into  the  field  of  vision. 

I  won't  repeat  the  yap's  comment,  but  it  was 
not  pretty.  The  Parson  stood  off  and  looked 
meek.  Nell  giggled. 

"You  little  runt,"  says  the  farmer,  "I  won't 
bother  to  smash  you,  but  I'm  going  to  just 
naturally  shake  the  innards  out  of  you !" 

I  could  see  the  Parson's  back  beginning  to 
come  up.  I  knew  he  was  wrestling  with 
temptation,  but  all  he  said  was,  "You'd  better 
not  touch  me,  sir!" 

The  farmer  smiled,  and  ducked  his  head  as 
though  he  were  making  a  low  tackle  and 
bumped  into  the  Parson,  caught  him  low  by 
the  waist  around  both  arms.  Then  he  pro 
ceeded  to  shake  him,  the  way  a  terrier  shakes 
a  rat.  He  was  twice  as  big  and  strong  as  our 


A  Woodside  Idyl.  297 

man,  and  I  began  to  hae  me  serious  doots. 
The  Parson  had  no  chance  to  exhibit  his  nerve 
and  science  in  that  style  of  fighting.  But  it 
did  one  good  thing,  though, — it  got  him  blaz 
ing,  foaming  mad. 

The  farmer  finished  his  shake  and  then 
started  to  let  go — and  then,  Lord  love  us !  you 
would  have  cried  with  joy  to  see  the  fireworks. 
Parson  put  the  heel  of  his  fist  into  the  yap's 
chin  and  broke  that  cinch  hold  to  flinders.  The 
next  thing  that  happened,  our  red-headed 
friend  went  up  in  the  air  and  down  like  a 
rocket,  with  me  yelling  my  head  loose  in  a 
corner.  The  farmer  got  up  like  a  rubber  ball, 
though,  and  rushed  after  Parson,  and  that  was 
what  we  wanted.  Our  man  stood  off  and  shot 
'em  in,  heavy  and  hard,  one  swipe  after 
another.  But  the  farmer  was  game  and  a 
glutton  for  punishment.  He  was  in  love  and 
the  girl  was  watching,  chewing  her  handker 
chief  to  bits. 

The  farmer  stood  for  it  till  he  saw  about 
sixteen  Parsons,  and  then  we  pried  'em  apart. 
You  ought  to  have  viewed  the  remains ! 

What  d'you  think  Nell  Hawkins  did?  In 
the  classic  annals  of  the  Eternal  Feminine 
she's  always  supposed  to  tag  the  victor  and 
elope  with  the  Might  makes  Right  proposition, 
but  instead,  Nell  jumped  for  the  loser. 

"O,  George!  are  you  hurt?"  she  says,  and 
she  went  to  crying  over  him  until  her  sleepy 
old  father  woke  up,  and  came  out  of  the 


298  Stanford  Stories. 

dressing-room  to  investigate.  It  was  intrud 
ing  upon  a  family  party  to  stay,  so  we  pulled 
out  from  motives  of  delicacy  and  a  desire  to 
celebrate. 

The  Parson  didn't  say  anything  for  a  long 
time.  After  a  while  he  put  his  hand  to  his 
eye,  which  was  damaged  some,  and  said: 

"I've  been  fighting  again!" 

"You  have!"  says  the  Bug;  "and  it  was  the 
greatest  since  Marathon!" 

"And  I  have  behaved  improperly  with  a 
woman,  and  you  fellows  led  me  into  tempta 
tion.  And  I  was  to  preach  tomorrow,  too!" 
So  he  was;  his  first  Christmas  sermon,  at  a 
little  country  church  four  or  five  miles  from 
Woodside. 

"What  was  the  text?"  the  Bug  asked  him. 
"'Peace  on  earth,'  and  so  forth?" 

"Yes,"  says  the  Parson. 

"Change  it  to  something  like  'Whatsoever 
thy  right  hand  findeth  to  do,  do  it  with  thy 
might,'  "  said  the  Bug. 

But  the  Parson  only  looked  kind  of  re 
proachful  and  refused  to  join  our  festivity. 
He  got  some  other  embryo  preacher  to  do  his 
Christmas  turn  for  him,  and  he  was  never 
quite  the  same  to  us  afterward.  The  only 
drag  on  our  big  celebration,  after  we  got 
home,  was  the  absence  of  the  star  performer. 

Nell  Hawkins  married  the  red-headed  far 
mer,  and  may  the  Lord  have  mercy  on  their 
souls.  She  sent  us  all  invitations,  too,  tickets 


A  Woodside  Idyl.  299 

with  her  card  inclosed — name  written  fancy 
by  a  Spencerian  expert  under  a  flap  with  a 
bouquet  and  two  clasped  hands  labelled 
"Friendship's  Offering"  printed  in  purple  and 
green — the  kind  you  get  by  mail  from  Augusta, 
Maine,  with  the  latest  popular  songs,  a  com 
plete  guide  to  courtship  and  a  rolled  gold  ring, 
all  for  ten  cents.  And  when  we  showed  up  at 
the  ceremony,  durned  if  Parson  Jones  wasn't 
the  referee!  He  was  ordained  by  that  time, 
but  they  had  sent  for  him,  all  the  way  to 
Sacramento,  where  he  was  preaching  for  $400 
a  year. 

When  it  was  over,  the  farmer  tried  to 
crowd  a  twenty  onto  Parson  Jones,  but  he 
wouldn't  have  it.  "No  fee,  please,"  he  says, 
"I  have  been  well  paid.  I  used  to  like  to  fight 
before  I  conquered  the  old  Adam  in  me,  and 
I  got  my  last  good  one  out  of  you.  It  was 
wicked,  but  I  enjoyed  it  as  I  have  never  en 
joyed  anything  before  or  since.  But  if  you 
had  only  held  on  when  you  had  me  going,"  he 
added,  dropping  his  voice  so  the  rest  wouldn't 
hear,  "I  wouldn't  be  here  to  tell  the  tale. 
Never  give  the  other  man  a  chance  to  get  at 
you  at  long  range,  unless  you're  sure  of  him, 
and  I  hope  that  you  two  will  be  happy  in  wed 
lock  and  walk  in  the  ways  of  righteousness  all 
your  days." 

No.  Parson  Jones  wouldn't  take  a  fee  for 
that  hitching,  though  I  guess  he  needed  the 
money  pretty  fierce.  But  he  got  back  at  'em 


300  Stanford  Stories. 

about  a  year  later.  The  Parson  always  charges 
the  regular  union  rate  for  christenings — five 
dollars  a  dip. 


ONE  COMMENCEMENT. 


One  Commencement.* 

"Within  the  camp  they  lie,  the  young,  the  brave; 

Half  knight,   half  schoolboy,   acolytes   of  fame; 

Pledged  to  one  altar,  and  perchance  one  grave." 

BRET  HARTE. 

There  is  one  Wednesday  morning,  the  last 
in  May,  when  the  sun,  peeping  over  the  ob 
servatory  dome  on  Mount  Hamilton  and 
flooding  the  wide  valley  of  Santa  Clara,  wakes 
unfeelingly  a  reluctant  set  of  mortals  to  the 
realization  that  this  is  the  last  of  their  morn 
ings. 

The  girl  in  Roble  who  has  lived  four  hap 
py,  independent  years  where  the  winds  of 
freedom  blow,  and  who  is  going  back  this 
afternoon  to  the  household  duties  and  narrow 
sympathies  of  a  not  over-interesting  home, 
leans  thoughtfully  on  the  foot-rail  of  her  iron 
bed;  the  dear,  familiar  view  blurs  as  she  gazes 
out  beyond  the  dormitory  room  and  its  rem 
iniscent  treasures  of  program  and  photo 
graph,  out  where  the  warm  light  brightens 

*  On  May  25,  1898,  Commencement  Day  at  the  University, 
the  First  California  Volunteers  sailed  for  the  Philippine  Islands. 
With  Company  K  of  that  regiment  went  thirty-five  Stanford 
students,  a  part  of  the  hundred  who  volunteered,  in  various  regi 
ments,  for  the  Spanish  Wax. 


3°4  Stanford  Stories. 

the  concrete  pillars  of  the  museum  and  the 
arboretum  with  its  waving  tops,  and  makes 
the  whole  fair  landscape  one  Field  of  the 
Cloth  of  Gold. 

The  Encina  student  who  has  slaved  his  un-. 
easy  way,  with  no  resources  save  his  willing 
ness  to  do  anything  that  may  help  him  from 
one  semester  to  the  next,  springs  exultantly 
from  his  alcove,  for  to-day  he  has  finished  the 
struggle,  and  there  is  a  good  job  waiting  for 
him. 

Over  in  the  fraternity  house,  the  man  who 
has  sung  his  grasshopper  songs  in  careless 
disregard  of  changing  seasons,  and  who  has 
found  some  impossible  examinations  barring 
his  primrose  path,  blinks  painfully  at  the  mer 
ciless  sun  of  Commencement  Day,  laughing 
at  him  above  the  roofs  of  siren  Mayfield,  and 
holds  his  foolish  head  in  his  hands;  for 
last  night,  while  the  other  Seniors,  full  of 
honors  and  regrets,  were  trying  to  choke 
down  a  little  of  the  good-bye  supper  after  the 
Promenade,  he  went  a  bit  too  far  in  cele 
brating  his  mixed  emotions  of  grief  at  flunk 
ing  and  joy  at  coming  back  again. 

Upon  all  alike — upon  him  who  has  watched 
for  it,  dreading  it  through  four  enchanted 
years,  as  upon  him  who  has  forgotten  until 
the  list  of  candidates  for  graduation  glared 
at  him  from  the  registrar's  bulletin-board 
with  a  vacancy  in  that  section  where  his  name 


One  Commencement.  3°s 

ought  to  be;  upon  him  who  has  hoped  for  this 
as  a  commencement  in  very  truth  of  things 
great  and  new,  as  upon  him  who  cares  not — 
shines  this  early  sunlight  of  the  last  Wednes 
day  in  May. 

There  is  never  a  cloud  in  the  sky  this  morn 
ing;  the  meadow  lark  sings  more  joyously 
than  on  any  other  day;  the  campus  is  more 
radiantly  beautiful,  because  some  hundred 
and  fifty  people  are  looking  at  it  through 
tears  for  the  last  time. 

On  his  own  Commencement  Day,  Tom 
Ashley  lay  sleeping,  hidden  away  from  the 
splendor  of  the  morning,  two-score  miles 
from  the  smiling  campus. 

The  man  lying  next  him  in  the  upper  tier 
but  one  rolled  over  and  shook  him  by  the 
shoulder: 

"Wake  up,  Tom;  it's  Commencement  Day! 
Don't  you  want  your  degree?" 

The  Senior  struggled  back  from  sleep;  a 
dream  influence  lingered  with  him,  a  vision  of 
a  cloistered  enclosure,  a  dream  in  which  all 
his  senses,  now  assailed  by  the  sights  and 
smells  and  sounds  of  a  troop-ship,  drew  in 
again  the  familiar  things;  he  beheld  the  red 
tiles  a-shimmer  above  the  yellow  stone;  the 
aromatic  scent  of  budding  eucalyptus  was  in 
his  nostrils,  the  sound  of  the  young  laughter 
of  women  in  his  ears.  He  sat  up,  gazing  un- 


3°s  Stanford  Stones. 

certainly  at  the  dark,  crowded  space,  the  nar 
row  stairway,  the  great  iron  racks  covered 
with  gray-blanketed  shapes;  then  he  crawled 
into  his  uniform  and  out  on  the  ship's  deck. 
The  early  dawn  had  set  the  towers  of  the 
city  glittering;  already  the  low  wharf-sheds 
along  the  water-front  were  astir  with  life. 
Back  of  the  town  the  twin  peaks,  named  by 
the  early  Franciscans  for  a  woman's  breasts, 
rose  veiled  with  a  filmy  scarf  of  fog.  Every 
where  below  them  spangled  flags  in  myriads 
flapped  from  the  tops  of  the  city  and  among 
the  crowded  shipping. 

Ashley  leaned  over  the  rail  of  the  Peking 
and  watched  the  yellow  tide  slide  by  with  its 
burden  of  debris.  Not  far  away  in  the  stream 
lay  the  other  two  transports,  unattended;  it 
was  too  early  for  the  fussy  craft  that  curt 
seyed  about  them  during  the  day.  At  three 
o'clock  that  afternoon  these  vessels  were  to 
sail  for  the  distant  Philippines,  bearing  arms 
against  the  ancient  country  of  the  Spanish 
Fathers — the  pioneers  who  had  shown  the 
Saxon  the  way  to  this  golden  coast  and  had 
made  vine  and  rose  flourish  for  him  on  the 
barren  sandhills,  that  he  might  now  strip  from 
the  land  of  their  forefathers  the  last  posses 
sion  of  a  dying  empire.  By  the  strange  turn 
ings  of  history,  from  the  very  city  of  their 
patron  saint  the  New  World  was  sending 
forth  its  first  hostile  expedition  against  the 


One  Commencement.  307 

Old,  and  the  great  community  that  had  grown 
from  their  nestling  mission  of  Dolores  would 
shriek  Godspeed  to  these  enemies  of  Old 
Spain. 

Nothing  of  this  was  in  Ashley's  mind  as  he 
watched  the  water  lapping  at  the  beach-side 
of  the  transports.  He  kept  saying  over  in  his 
mind  the  words  of  his  bunk-mate,  "It's  Com 
mencement  Day!  Don't  you  want  your  de 
gree?" 

In  spite  of  the  seriousness  of  the  situation, 
Tom,  looking  at  his  coarse  blue  uniform, 
smiled  as  he  thought  on  his  plans  for  Grad 
uation  Week.  Those  feet,  now  clad  in  new 
government  gunboats,  were  to  have  waltzed 
but  two  nights  before  in  shining  patent- 
leather  at  the  head  of  the  Senior  Ball.  Only 
yesterday  he  should  have  been  galloping 
around  the  bases  in  fantastic  costume  at  the 
Senior-Faculty  game.  Monday  afternoon, 
when  he  should  have  been  before  the  Chapel 
site  with  Her,  listening  to  the  glories  of  the 
Class  as  told  over  its  freshly-mortared  plate, 
he  was  tramping  on  the  wrenching  cobble 
stones  of  Market  Street  with  a  bunch  of  roses 
in  his  campaign  hat  and  another  in  his  gun 
barrel,  and  the  city  going  mad  on  the  curbing. 
Lord  High  Ruler  of  the  Senior  dance  and 
counsellor  in  all  the  affairs  of  the  Class,  he 
was  cooped  up  with  a  thousand  others  on  the 
troopship  City  of  Peking,  a  sergeant  at 


3°8  Stanford  Stories. 

eighteen  a  month  and  lucky  to  get  so  much, 
with  a  chain  of  superiors  ordering  his  com 
ings  and  goings. 

All  this  because  of  the  destruction  of  an 
American  battleship  in  the  harbor  of  Havana. 

The  notes  of  a  bugle-call  drifted  across  the 
water  from  the  nearest  transport,  and  Tom's 
mind  went  back  to  the  time  when  the  unfa 
miliar  sound  was  first  heard  on  the  Stanford 
campus.  It  seemed  like  a  very  old  memory, 
although  it  was  but  three  weeks  past.  He  re 
membered  how,  when  the  recruiting  sergeant 
came  down  from  the  city,  the  after-dinner 
crowd  used  to  sit  on  the  Hall  steps  watching 
him  drill  the  men  in  the  moonlight.  After 
drill,  they  would  loaf  in  his  Hall  room, 
talking  it  over,  and  when  the  civilians  had 
drifted  off  to  ed  or  to  the  inglorious  studies 
of  a  routine  now  ended  for  Tom,  he  would  sit 
with  "Nosey"  Marion  and  blow  smoke. 
Neither  spoke  much,  only  a  word  now  and 
then,  but  they  were  thinking  of  the  same 
thing. 

The  days  passed;  the  college  used  to  drop 
out  between  recitations  to  watch  them  drill 
ing  on  the  football  field;  the  uniforms  arrived, 
and  then  the  orders.  There  was  a  baseball 
rally  that  night,  but  when  the  enlisted  men 
came  into  the  Hall  and  word  was  passed  that 
they  were  going  on  the  morrow,  the  occasion 
was  all  theirs.  Marion,  who  had  been  twice 


One  Commencement.  309 

on  the  debating  team,  stood  up,  looking  slim 
mer  than  ever  in  his  plain  blue,  and  spoke  for 
them.  He  said  only  simple  things ;  it  was  not 
like  his  speech  of  a  year  before,  when  his  im 
passioned  arguments  turned  defeat  into  vic 
tory  at  the  Inter-Collegiate;  but  the  crowd 
listened  with  their  eyes  on  the  floor  and 
applauded  with  their  hands  only  when  he  had 
done,  because  they  couldn't  trust  their  voices. 
They  sang  the  terrible  "Battle  Hymn  of  the 
Republic"  after  that;  Langdon  led  it.  "Peg" 
could  hardly  carry  a  tune  with  that  awful 
voice  of  his,  but  he  sang  the  verses  so  that 
the  chills  ran  down  your  back  and  you  had 
to  join  in  the  chorus,  "Our  God  is  marching 
on." 

Next  day  they  themselves  were  marching 
on,  forty  of  them,  with  hardly  a  thought  of 
what  they  were  leaving  behind,  their  minds 
fixed  on  the  distant  Isles  of  Philip.  Tom  had 
never  expected  to  leave  the  campus  in  that 
spirit.  He  loved  it  all,  from  the  quiet  slopes 
by  Frenchman's  Lake  to  that  lofty  redwood 
treetop,  first  rampart  of  the  smiling  city  to 
the  eager  Freshman,  last  long-watched 
glimpse  of  the  land  of  his  memories  to  the 
reluctant  Senior. 

He  had  always  felt  that  it  would  be  a  tug  to 
say  good-bye,  yet  he,  too,  his  mind  over-seas, 
had  gone  away  to  town  with  hardly  a 
thought.  He  had  time  to  reflect  in  that 


3i°  Stanford  Stories. 

dreary  fortnight  at  the  Presidio  when  the  un 
seasonable  rains  drenched  his  tent,  and  the 
wretched  routine  of  beans  and  coffee  hurt  the 
romance  of  enlistment. 

The  life  had  its  compensating  features. 
Every  city  girl  he  had  ever  met  in  College 
or  town  society  came  out  to  camp  and  asked 
for  him  at  K  Street — K  Street  with  its  saucy 
cardinal  flag  waving  above  the  first  tent  to 
the  left.  Most  of  them  brought  candy;  a 
very  few,  with  super-feminine  understanding, 
made  it  beer;  one,  she  was  a  genius,  sent 
over  on  a  drizzling  evening  a  piping-hot 
steak.  Then,  too,  he  had  three  white  angles 
on  his  sleeve  and  "Sergeant  Ashley"  sounded 
well.  Cap  Smith  was  not  even  a  corporal; 
the  emphasis  with  which  Cap  mentioned  the 
fact  showed  anything  but  college  spirit. 

These  things  made  it  easier  not  to  think 
about  the  campus  and  what  the  rest  of  the  fel 
lows  were  doing,  but  the  old  life  came  drift 
ing  in  after  all.  Sometimes,  after  the  long, 
hard  morning  drill  on  the  green  slope  be 
yond  the  car-track,  between  drill  and  the  wel 
come  mess-call,  Marion  would  come  into  the. 
Sergeant's  tent  and  they  would  sit  apart  to 
talk  about  the  Faculty  game  or  the  Senior 
ball  and  the  dances  they  had  expected  to  put 
on  their  cards.  Each  Saturday  some  of  the 
boys  came  up  and  brought  the  campus  news. 
One  time,  all  enlisted  Stanford  tumbled  out 


One  Commencement.  3H 

of  their  tents,  every  last  one  of  them,  to  wel 
come  a  big,  slow-moving,  slow-speaking  man, 
who  plays  first-base  at  the  Commencement 
Game.  A  corporal  who  had  never  been  to 
college  and  who  had  a  newspaper  idea  of 
students,  asked  if  that  was  the  football  cap 
tain  whom  they  were  crowding  around  and 
almost  trying  to  hug,  and  Marion  answered 
no;  that  he  was  a  bigger  man  than  even  the 
head  coach.  The  boys  held  their  visitor  until 
the  officer  of  the  day  ordered  civilians  out  of 
camp,  and,  when  the  unfeeling  guard  drove 
him  out,  they  gave  the  yell  in  good  old  style. 
The  colonel  sent  his  orderly  to  find  what  was 
the  matter,  for  it  was  a  high  offence  against 
martial  law,  and  when  the  messenger  reported 
that  it  was  those  Stanford  kids  in  K,  yelling 
for  their  President,  his  superior  said  that  he 
guessed  it  was  all  right;  this  was  the  first 
California  regiment,  and  the  old  man  was  a 
part  of  the  state.  This  was  before  the  final 
dispatches  came,  before  the  men  learned  that 
they  were  going  on  the  first  expedition. 

Monday  morning  and  marching  orders. 
On  this,  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  as  he 
looked  across  the  water  and  watched  the 
city  growing  brighter,  he  thrilled  again  with 
the  remembrance  of  that  feeling,  that  purely 
physical  tingling  of  the  nerves,  which  came 
over  him  at  the  barracks  when  he  lifted  his 
gun  to  start.  The  load  on  his  back  was  snug 


3ia  Stanford  Stories. 

and  light  as  he  stood  there  in  marching  rig; 
how  much  heavier  and  harder  it  was  to  grow 
before  he  should  stand  on  American  soil 
again,  he  could  not  know.  Then,  the  shuf 
fling  of  many  feet  and  the  flutter  of  a  flag 
outside  the  stone  gates,  so  strangely  like  the 
gates  which  stand  at  the  entrance  of  the  Land 
of  his  Memories — and  his  Commencement 
week  had  begun. 

Class  Day,  from  that  time  on,  lay  in  his 
memory  a  mass  of  unassimilated  matter  to  be 
thought  out  in  the  long  weeks  of  idleness  on 
the  Peking's  blistering  deck.  The  crowd, 
huge,  wild,  packed  from  building  to  curb,  the 
merry,  merry  flags  waving  them  on,  the  little 
kaleidoscopic  flashes  of  expressions  which  he 
caught,  when  he  stopped  to  look  at  them,  on 
the  grim  faces  to  right  and  left, — all  these 
impressions  and  many  more  were  jumbled  in 
his  brain.  He  remembered  the  excitement 
and  sympathy  mingled  in  the  countenances  of 
the  people.  One  or  two  little  things  were 
caught  along  with  the  larger  recollections — a 
woman's  face  that  looked  like  Hers  and  al 
most  made  him  forget  for  the  moment  that 
She  was  then  doubtless  listening  to  the  Class 
history;  a  baby  holding  a  flag  in  its  little  hand, 
and  staring  with  awed,  uncomprehending  eyes 
at  the  sober-faced  soldiers  tramping  on  and 
on;  a  man  mounted  on  a  truck  crying  above 
the  cheering,  "Give  'em  hell  for  us!"  A  re- 


One  Commencement.  sn 

membrance  that  stood  out  above  the  others 
was  that  of  someone  calling  a  good-bye  to  the 
Major,  of  the  choke  in  the  officer's  voice  as 
he  answered.  He  was  an  older  man,  and  his 
expression  of  feeling  nearly  upset  Tom.  He 
trudged  on,  file-closer  for  the  front  rank 
and  six-feet-one  of  target,  and  wondered  if 
he  had  been  a  fool  after  all.  It  was  well 
enough  for  those  people  yelling  acclaim  from 
street  and  housetop;  but  they  were  going 
back  home,  or  down  to  the  University,  and 
he — to  the  troopship,  and  the  high  seas,  and 
after  that  no  telling.  The  strap  of  his  knap 
sack  hurt  him.  They  said  that  Manila  was  a 
furnace.  He  wished  that  the  women  would 
stop  loading  them  with  flowers;  he  wished 
that  Pellams  and  the  other  fellows  wouldn't 
keep  running  out  to  march  beside  him;  didn't 
they  know  how  hard  he  was  trying  to  hold  it 
back?  And  what  did  this  going  amount  to, 
anyway?  If  he  had  staid  out,  there  would 
have  been  only  one  gap  in  the  company. 
Then,  in  a  rest,  Pellams  got  to  his  side  with  a 
bottle  of  ice-cold  Pilsener  and  Tom  pointed 
its  base  to  the  sky  and  gained  courage. 

There  was  a  falling  apart  to  his  right,  and 
he  felt  rather  than  saw  that  his  mother  had 
slipped  through  the  crowd  and  taken  his  hand 
in  her  slim,  white  one,  was  marching  beside 
him  over  the  cruel  cobble-stones;  Pellams, 
too,  closed  up  on  the  other  side,  for  the  of- 


3 '4  Stanford  Stories. 

ficers  were  not  trying  to  keep  the  alignment 
as  they  drew  near  the  end.  These  three  went 
on  together,  she  trying  to  be  brave  now  that 
the  last  had  come,  Pellams  clumping  along 
over  the  rough  pavement  and  joking  in 
ecstatic  disregard  of  the  discomfort  of  his  fat 
body.  It  was  over  at  last,  the  mounted  police 
were  pushing  back  the  crowd;  it  was  to  be  all 
alone  now.  The  Stanford  men  gave  their  yell 
together,  the  volunteer  held  his  mother  close 
for  a  moment.  Then, — "Company,  atten 
tion!" — the  dock  faded  into  mist,  so  that  he 
stumbled  on  the  gangway. 

Not  until  that  night,  when  a  group  of  them 
paced  along  the  wharf,  had  anyone  spoken  of 
Class  Day.  Cap  Smith  had  started  it. 

"They  are  going  to  the  Ball  now,"  said  he. 

"I  wonder  if  Lyman  came  out  ahead  on  the 
Show,"  said  Marion,  his  eye  on  the  dollar, 
even  at  that  solemn  moment. 

"I  wonder  if  the  programs  got  down  in 
time,"  said  Tom,  and  then  he  laughed  to  think 
of  himself,  the  chairman  of  the  Ball  com 
mittee,  plodding  along  the  splintered  dock  in 
a  dusty  uniform  and  buff  leggings  and  with 
the  rudiments  of  a  scraggly  beard  on  his  face. 
It  was  a  queer  ending. 

Down  there,  the  others  were  floating  round, 
now,  to  high-priced  music  from  town.  In  a 
little  note  which  Pellams  had  brought  him  from 
Her  that  morning,  she  had  said  that  she  was  to 


One  Commencement.  315 

wear  a  small  silk  flag  instead  of  flowers  this 
time.  He  would  have  liked  to  peep  in,  as  he 
used  to  from  the  gym  roof  when  he  was  a 
Freshie,  to  see  if  she  had  really  done  it. 

During  these  wharf-edge  musings,  taps  had 
blown,  bringing  the  men  on  board  again.  On 
the  way  up  the  plank,  he  remembered,  they 
passed  one  of  the  fellows  with  his  face  in  his 
hands,  and  Tom  had  to  put  his  arm  around 
the  boy  and  lead  him,  so  that  he  might  be  in 
quarters  in  time.  Neither  of  them  could 
know  that  this  was  to  be  the  one  who  did  not 
return. 

He  had  his  first  sight  of  the  hold,  after  that, 
and  the  truth  knocked  out  some  of  the  poetry. 
Ashley,  and  K  Company  in  general,  were 
quartered  just  over  the  screw;  but  a  man 
gets  used  to  anything,  even  to  bullets  that  sing 
past  your  ears  and  clip  off  little  bamboo 
leaves  about  two  feet  from  your  hair.  There 
were  twelve  hundred  men  below  decks;  when 
most  of  the  landsmen  should  be  seasick — ugh! 

The  second  night,  Tuesday,  he  had  sat 
with  Cap  among  the  coiled  ropes  on  deck. 
Beyond  the  shipping,  the  city  of  hills  twinkled 
at  them,  striped  with  long,  sloping  lines  of 
dotted  light;  out  of  the  blackness  above,  the 
crown  of  the  Spreckels  building  made  a  cir 
clet  like  a  halo  over  St.  Francis  and  his  city; 
across  the  bay  slid  the  mysterious,  luminous 
honeycombs  of  the  silent  ferry-boats.  Far 


3*6  Stanford  Stories. 

aft,  the  band  was  trying  to  cheer  things  up 
with  a  Sousa  march.  That  very  tune  was 
being  played,  probably,  down  there  where 
the  Quadrangle,  softly  glowing  with  the  faint 
edging  of  lanterns,  shimmered  in  the  fairy 
land  mystery  of  long  paim-studded  vistas, 
a-flutter  with  white  dresses. 

"They  are  saying  good-bye  to  each  other, 
now,"  said  Tom,  by  way  of  a  feeler. 

"Humph!"  said  Cap.  He  was  flat  on  his 
back,  looking  up  at  the  stars.  "It  doesn't 
mean  anything.  When  you're  going  to  pull 
out  across  the  Pacific  for  God  knows  what, 
then  it's  different." 

"I  didn't  expect  to  spend  this  evening  lying 
on  a  ship's  deck,"  murmured  Tom.  He  was 
thinking  of  what  the  Promenade  Concert 
usually  means  to  people  who  have  been  taught 
something  by  co-education.  That  good-bye, 
said  in  the  Quadrangle  when  the  music  and 
the  thoughtless  people  have  gone  and  the 
lanterns  blaze  up  and  drop,  one  after  another, 
and  lie  smoldering  on  the  moonlit  asphalt; 
those  last  words  with  people  from  whom  you 
have  concealed  yourself  these  four  years  and 
to  whom  you  can  now  afford  to  lay  open  your 
heart,  as  can  the  happy  dead,  because  your 
ways  after  to-night  may  lie  apart, — Tom 
knew  that  this  good-bye  does  mean  some 
thing,  in  spite  of  the  superior  announcement 
of  Sophomore  Smith.  Only  it  meant  more  to 


One  Commencement.  317 

a  fellow  lying  thinking  about  it  among  the 
ropes  of  a  transport's  deck,  with  the  Span 
iards  in  prospect. 

Cap's  cigarette  shone  like  a  glowworm  in 
the  shadow  of  the  stack. 

"Our  good-bye  supper  will  be  sloppy 
weather,  all  right;"  said  he.  "Six  going  out." 

"No,"  answered  Tom,  "it  won't  be  a  drunk 
to-night,  Cap.  You  haven't  been  in  long 
enough.  I'll  bet  they  don't  get  through  the 
first  case;  I'll  bet  it's  a  cry.  You  didn't  see 
'95  go  out." 

"Well,  perhaps,"  assented  the  Sophomore. 
"The  fellows  are  pretty  well  worked  up." 

Tom  went  back  to  his  Freshman  days. 

"I  remember  our  '95  feed  in  the  Hall. 
Stanton  cried  that  night,  and  Gray.  I 
never  saw  them  do  it  before."  Then,  more 
slowly,  "It  must  be  tough  on  a  girl." 

After  which  he  was  not  talkative. 

There  was  little  enough,  this  last  morning, 
to  suggest  Commencement,  as  he  leaned  on 
the  damp  rail  of  the  ship  and  dreamed  over 
the  last  few  days.  A  voice  at  his  elbow  said: 

"Captain  wants  you,  Sergeant." 

Tom  started  out  of  his  reverie,  and  the 
military  tilt  came  into  his  back.  He  was  not  a 
student  bidding  the  College  farewell;  he  was 
a  sergeant  at  eighteen  a  month  and  lucky  to 
get  so  much. 

The  city  had  awakened  when  he  came  to 


3i8  Stanford  Stories. 

the  rail  again.  There  was  a  tense  feeling 
abroad,  a  gathering  excitement  that  grew 
through  the  morning.  All  manner  of  water- 
craft  fussed  and  fumed  and  dodged  around 
the  transports,— tugs,  rowboats,  launches  and 
clumsy  river  steamers  strung  with  flags  and 
black  with  civilians.  One  tug  that  hung  close 
by  shone  with  more  color  than  the  others  by 
reason  of  the  women  crowding  it;  Tom 
could  discern  the  face  of  his  mother  looking, 
looking  with  yearning  eyes  that  would  have 
called  him  back.  He  drew  a  quick  breath  of 
surprise  and  his  hands  tightened  on  the  black 
rigging.  There  on  the  tug,  standing  beside 
his  mother  instead  of  among  those  who  were 
saying  good-bye  to  the  Campus,  he  saw  the 
Other  One. 

Soon  after  three,  the  screw  throbbed,  moved, 
the  craft  wheeled  into  lines  flanking  the  huge 
vessel;  the  noises  of  the  city  awoke: 

"For  the  large  birds  of  prey 
They'll  carry  you  away, 
And  you'll  never  see  your  soldiers 
any  more." 

The  grey  town  lay  back  among  her  hills, 
shrieking  with  every  manner  of  mechanical 
voice  her  farewell  to  the  troops.  Above  this 
uproar  rose  and  fell  the  weird  sobbing  of  a 
siren  and  a  cannon  from  the  top  of  a  sky- 


One  Commencement.  319 

scraper  boomed  in  at  solemn  intervals.  On 
the  roofs  were  knots  of  people  flashing  white 
signals  of  Godspeed;  when  the  wind  was  right, 
one  could  catch,  very  faintly,  the  sound  of 
their  cheering. 

The  flotilla  drew  around  the  curving  water 
front  and  toward  the  Gate.  To  the  left,  the 
remains  of  the  camp  dotted  the  plain  below 
the  Presidio  hills;  every  last  man  of  them 
was  on  the  bulkhead  in  front  of  the  fort,  wav 
ing  his  brown  hat  and  cheering  the  lucky 
devils  who  went  first.  The  great  hill  guns 
bellowed  good-bye  as  the  transports  slipped 
through  the  gleaming  strait.  Gradually  the 
convoy  wheeled  'round  again,  the  bigger  ves 
sels  keeping  up  until  outside  the  Heads. 
Then  the  first  expedition  went  on  alone. 

Tom  Ashley,  Senior  and  'Varsity  fullback, 
with  his  eyes  wet  in  spite  of  himself,  set  his 
face  to  the  west.  The  round  sun  hung  red 
above  the  horizon;  a  few  seconds  earlier,  it 
had  looked  over  the  Palo  Alto  hills  at  the 
deserted  University  campus.  Beyond  the 
ship,  a  path  of  gold  lay  out  toward  Manila 
and  its  future.  Marion,  leaning  beside  him, 
looked  back  at  the  fading  line  of  surf  below 
the  Cliff  House. 

"Well,  Tom,"  he  said,  a  bit  huskily,  "Com 
mencement  Day's  over." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  Sergeant,  without 
turning,  "we're  up  against  it,  all  right!" 


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